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The  Motion  Picture  Story  Magazine 

Published    for   the    Public    Monthly   by  THE  MOTION    PICTURE    STORY    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

Publication  Office,  26  Court  Street,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

J.  STUART  BLACKTON,  President  D.  ROY  SHAFER.  Vice-President 

EUGENE  V.  BREWSTER.  Secretary  and  Treasurer 

Price  per  Copy,  Fifteen  Cents         By  the  Year,  One  DoKar  Fifty 


Vol.  1 


FEBRUARY,  1911 


No.  1 


'Dost  thou   love  pictures  f     We  will  fetch   thee  straight — 
Adonis  painted   by  a  running   brook; 
And  Cythcrca  all  in  sedges  hid; 

Which  seem   to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath, 
Even   as    the  waving  sedges  play   with  the  wind." 

— Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


EDITORIAL 


PROEM 


The  Motion  Picture   Story  Magazine  presents  its   compliments  to   its 
readers  and  hopes  for  a  more  intimate  acquaintance. 

This  publication  is  so  absolutely  unique  amongst  the  hundreds  of 
monthly  magazines,  its  Editors  feel  assured  that  the  novelty  will  of  itself 
attract  an  attention  that  the  publication  will  hold. 

Irrespective  of  its  merits  as  a  play,  the  dramatized  novel  is  assured  the 
patronage  of  the  supporters  of  the  book. 

The  Motion  Picture  Story  Magazine,  thru  the  courtesy  of  the  leading 
manufacturers  of  moving  pictures,  both  here  and  abroad,  is  able  to  announce 
the  monthly  presentation  of  at  least  a  dozen  short  stories  lavishly  illustrated 
with  photographs  from  life  of  those  actors  engaged  in  the  presentation  of 
the  photoplay  upon  which  the  story  is  based,  and  which  will  be  produced 
within  the  current  month  at  all  of  the  leading  photoplay-houses  thruout  the 
country.  These  stories  will  be  among  the  most  notable  of  the  seventy  or 
eighty  stories  to  be  presented  each  month,  and  will  represent  the  very  best 
of  a  varied  product. 

Unlike  the  dramatized  novel,  which  frequently  makes  radical  departure 
from  the  published  book,   these  stories   adhere   closely   to  the  original  tale, 

5 


6  EDITCms&L 

and  the  reader  will  find  no  disappointment  in  the  pictured  drama  thru  the 
violence  done  to  preconceived  impressions  of  the  various  personages. 

We  feel  that  this  Monthly  will  meet  a  demand  from  the  increasingly  large 
number  of  picture  patrons,  and  we  thank  you  for  the  welcome  of  which  we 
feel  assured. 


To  imitate,  as  Aristotle  observes,  is  instinctive  to  the  human  race,  and 
from  clever  imitation  all  men  derive  a  certain  pleasure.  That  is  why, 
for  three  thousand  years,  the  drama  has  been  to  the  world  one  of  its 
greatest  sources  of  entertainment,  culture  and  education.  Indeed,  ' '  The  play 's 
the  thing, ' '  but  not  necessarily  the  spoken  play.  Gesture  and  facial  expression 
are  more  eloquent  than  words.  The  eyes  can  speak  as  well  as  the  lips. 
"Actions  speak  louder  than  words."  And  not  only  this,  for  all  the  world 
loves  a  picture,  and  that  is  why  the  moving  picture  has  come  into  such 
unprecedented  popularity.  By  Theophile  Gautier  it  has  been  well  remarked 
that  the  skeleton  of  every  good  drama  is  a  pantomime,  altho  the  bones  that 
form  it  must  be  covered  with  the  living  flesh  of  poetry. 

The  moving  pictures  not  only  imitate ;  they  interpret  human  life.  No 
painter  can  paint  with  the  hand  what  the  motion  picture  spectator  can  see 
with  his  eye. 

As  Cowper  observes,  "Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, — the  art  that 
baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim  to  quench  it."  And  what  better  accomplishes 
this  than  the  moving  picture?  It  puts  in  permanent  form  the  history  of 
to-day  for  the  scholars  of  to-morrow.  It  sketches  life,  customs,  habits  and 
character  as  no  words  can  do.  It  makes  an  accurate  record  of  times  present, 
and  brings  us  into  more  intimate  relations  with  times  past. 


The  first  dramatic  representations  known  in  Europe  were  devotional 
pieces,  acted  by  the  monks,  in  the  churches  of  their  convents,  representa- 
tive of  the  life  of  the  Saviour  and  of  his  apostles.  The  drama  has  long 
since  passed  the  time  when  it  was  used  for  religious  or  even  for  moral  pur- 
poses, yet  the  moving  picture  play  has  come,  and  we  frequently  see  plays  in 
illustration  of  Bible  stories  and  of  other  moral  truths. 


One  advantage  of  the  moving  picture  over  the  theatre  play  is  in  the 
variety  of  the  scenery  and  the  facility  with  which  it  can  be  changed. 
At  the  theatre  we  seldom  see  more  than  three  scenes,  and  we  are  obliged 
to  wait  several  minutes  to  see  even  these ;  while  at  the  moving  picture  plays, 
we  may  see  a  hundred  in  one  piece,  without  losing  a  minute  of  our  time  and 
without  losing  a  bit  of  action.  Besides  this,  the  limited  space  on  the  theatre 
stage  makes  elaborate  scenery  impossible,  whereas  the  picture  play  often 
presents  real  instead  of  painted  scenery. 


The  picture  play  has  been  a  God-send  to  those  who  have  been  complaining 
of  bad  acoustics  in  the  theatres,  and  of  actors  with  poor  enunciation  or 
bad  elocution.    And  we  must  not  forget  that  there  is  in  every  community 
a  considerable  number  who  are  hard  of  hearing,  or  even  deaf. 


A  famous  preacher  recently  said  that  he  believed  more  good  was  done  to 
the  boys  by  the  moving  picture  plays  than  by  the  churches.  "You  can 
teach  a  boy  a  lesson,"  said  he,  "in  Sunday  School,  but  he  is  not 
interested,  and,  if  he  listens  at  all,  he  soon  forgets  what  he  has  learned ;  while 
the  lesson  of  the  moving  picture  is  not  only  intensely  interesting,  but  it  has  a 
more  dramatic  and  lasting  effect  on  the  boy.  If  I  could  select  my  own 
pictures,  I  believe  I  could  reform  any  bad  boy." 


PALS 


Adapted  from  the  Play  by  Colin  S.  Collins 


The  Story  of  a  partnership  that  was  broken  thru  the  rascality  of 
a  Mexican,  but  made  whole  again  thru  fortunate  circumstances 


The  wicked  looking  blade  gleamed 
coldly  in  the  light  as  it  flashed 
on  high.  Some  of  the  regular 
patrons  of  the  "Grub  Stake"  bar 
edged  toward  the  door.  When 
"Greasy  Diego"  went  on  a  drunk  it 
was  just  as  well  to  be  somewhere  else 
unless  you  happened  to  have  a 
"grouch"  against  the  life  insurance 
company  that  wrote  your  policy. 
Those  who  could  not  get  to  the  door 


stood  looking,  with  the  odd  indiffer- 
ence of  the  plainsman  to  <the  passing 
of  human  life,  and  in  that  electric 
moment  wondered  what  Jack  Harper 
would  do  to  Diego  should  the  thrust 
not  prove  immediately  fatal. 

Harper  was  reasonably  quick  on 
the  draw,  but  the  hammer  had  caught 
against  a  frayed  edge  of  the  holster, 
and  he  was  at  the  Mexican's  mercy. 

But    the    blade    did    not    fall    and 


DENTON'S    ARRIVAL    IN    THE    WEST. 
7 


) 


I 


PALS 


Diego  uttered  a  cry  of  pain  as  an  iron 
grip  closed  over  the  slender  wrist  with 
a  pressure  that  seemed  able  to  crush 
it.  For  a  moment  he  writhed  and 
struggled,  seeking  to  turn  the  blade 
against  this  new  antagonist,  but  the 
knife  clattered  to  the  floor  and  in 
another  moment  half  a  dozen  men 
were  piled  upon  his  prostrate  form 
and  Harper  was  shaking  hands  with 
his  preserver. 

"And  you  a  tenderfoot,"  he  cried 
amazed.  "When  I  saw  you  get  off 
the  stage  I  sure  had  it  figured  that 
you'd  take  some  training  to  get  in 
line  for  the  West,  but — say — you're  a 
ready-made  man,  that's  what  you  are. 
What's  your  name,  Old  Timer?" 

"Brooks  Denton,"  answered  the 
easterner,  not  conscious  of  the  compli- 
ment the  expression  ' '  Old  Timer ' '  con- 
veyed. 

"You're  all  right,  Denton,"  cried 
Harper,  "and  any  time  you  want  a 
pal  just  tell  me  about  it.  I'm  your 
man  if  you  want  me. ' ' 

"Then  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now," 
was  the  smiling  response.  "I  do  want 
a  pal,  and  if  you  mean  it,  I  think  we 
can  get  along  first  rate.  I've  enough 
to  grub-stake  two  for  a  few  months 
and—" 

"And  I've  a  pretty  comfortable 
cabin,"  volunteered  Harper.  "Is  it 
a  go?" 

' '  The  very  -thing  I  wanted, ' '  was  the 
hearty  response.  "Let's  have  a  drink 
to  celebrate  the  event  and  then  get 
down  to  business." 

The  invitation  to  all  hands  to  step 
up  to  the  bar  completed  Denton's 
popularity  not  an  hour  after  he  had 
stepped  from  the  stage,  and  presently 
he  became  part  owner  of  Harper's 
cabin  by  virtue  of  a  liberal  contribu- 
tion of  stores. 

The  partnership  brought  success  to 
Harper,  whose  development  work  on 
a  lead  did  not  return  the  promise  of 
the  indications.  With  two  men  to 
work  they  made  more  rapid  progress, 
and  the  indications  again  grew  most 
favorable.  Harper  had  been  famous 
in  camp  for  his  prejudice  against 
"tenderfeet"  from  the  East,  but  now 
he  swore  that  the  ideal  combination 


was  a  man  from  the  East  and     one 
from  the  W^est. 

When  the  work  was  temporarily 
stopped  by  a  cave-in  which  laid  Den- 
ton up  for  several  weeks  Harper 
nursed  him  as  tenderly  as  a  woman 
and  knitted  more  firmly  the  bond 
between  the  two  men. 

Then  came  pay-rock,  and  day  after 
day  Harper  and  Denton  'added  to  the 
store  of  gold  in  the  chimney  piece  and 
planned  what  they  would  do  when 
the  pile  grew  big  and  they  could  sell 
the  mine  for  a  good,  round  sum.  Five 
thousand  apiece  was  the  sum  they  set 
for  the  "cleanup,"  and  then  Denton 
would  go  back  East  for  his  family 
while  Harper  stayed  to  sell  the  mine. 
Denton's  mother  was  failing  fast  and 
he  was  anxious  to  get  back  home. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  dust 
was  weighed  for  the  hundredth  time, 
and  with  the  last  addition  made  up 
the  sum.  Half  the  night  they  sat  up 
and  planned,  and  it  was  late  when 
they  rose  in  the  morning. 

"You  go  up  to  the  claim  and  start 
in, ' '  suggested  Denton,  ' '  and  I  '11  wash 
the  dishes  and  clean  up.  We'll  put  in 
one  more  day  and  to-morrow  we'll 
cash  in  the  dust  and  divide.  I  don't 
like  the  idea  of  so  much  dust  here. 
Diego  doesn't  like  us  and  one  of  these 
days  he'll  make  a  raid." 

"Not  while  he  remembers  the  grip 
you  gave  him, ' '  denied  Harper  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  shouldered  his  tools. 
"Bring  up  some  stuff  for  lunch  when 
you  come." 

Denton  nodded,  and  when  his  pal 
had  gone  he  busied  himself  with  the 
dish-washing.  He  was  still  at  work 
when  a  miner  living  up  the  creek 
dropped  in. 

' '  This  came  in  on  the  stage  this  morn- 
ing,"  he  explained,  handing  him  a 
yellow  telegraph  envelope.  "The 
driver  asked  me  to  bring  it  along  to 
save  him  the  trip,  and  he  says  he's 
going  back  at  half  past  eleven." 

He  hurried  away,  for  he  knew  the 
contents  of  the  envelope  and,  man- 
like, he  hated  a  scene. 

With  trembling  fingers  Denton  tore 
open  the  envelope  and  confirmed  his 
fears.    His  mother  was  sinking.    Per- 


DIEGO    UTTERED  A   CRY    OF   PAIN   AS   AN   IRON    GRIP   CLOSED    OVER    HIS    SLENDER 

WRIST. 


haps  it  would  be  too  late  to  see  her 
alive,  but  she  was  calling  for  him  and 
they  knew  that  he  would  come. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was 
eleven.  There  was  no  time  to  go  up 
to  the  claim  and  tell  Harper.  There 
was  time  only  to  throw  a  few  things 
in  a  grip  and  hurry  to  the  Grub  Stake 
to  take  the  stage  for  the  railroad. 

On  the  back  of  a  flour-sack  he  wrote 
a  brief  note  for  Harper,  explaining 
the  situation,  and  promising  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible.  "I  don't  need  the 
dust,"  he  added.  "We  will  divide 
when  I  get  back." 

He  left  this  and  the  telegram  on 
the  table  where  Harper  would  be  sure 
to  see  it,  and  he  never  'noticed 
"Greasy  Diego"  peering  through  the 
window.  The  Mexican  had  seen 
Harper  going  toward  the  claim  alone, 
and  thought  his  chance  had  come  to  be 
revenged  upon  the  man  who  had 
humiliated  him. 

Something  he  guessed  from  the  mes- 
sage  and   the   actions  that   followed, 


and  now  a  new  scheme  of  revenge  sug- 
gested itself.  As  soon  as  Denton  left 
the  shack  he  slipped  thru  the  lightly 
latched  door  and  made  a  rapid  survey 
of  the  room.  It  did  not  take  him  long 
to  locate  the  loose  bricks  in  the  chim- 
ney that  marked  the  hiding  place,  and 
he  paused  only  long  enough  to  destroy 
the  note  and  telegram  and  leave  in 
its  place  another  that  read : 

"I'm  tired  of  the  country  and  I'm 
taking  the  dust.  You  can  have  the 
mine  to  get  more  from. ' ' 

Diego,  unlike  many  of  his  class, 
could  write  well,  and  it  was  not  the 
first  time  that  he  had  forged  the  writ- 
ing of  others.  The  note  would  have 
puzzled  Denton  himself,  and  it  com- 
pletely deceived  Harper  when  he  tired 
of  waiting  for  his  lunch  and  returned 
to  the  shack. 

"My  pal,"  he  moaned  as  he  sank 
into  a  chair.  "He  could  have  had  the 
doggone  dust,  if  he  wanted,  if  he  only 
had  asked,  but  to  do  me  dirt  like  this 
when  I  trusted  him  ! ' ' 


PALS 


11 


That  was  what  hurt.  He  had 
trusted  Denton  as  a  brother.  He  had 
come  to  love  him  with  more  than  a 
brother's  love,  and  the  betrayal 
destroyed  his  faith  in  all  men. 

For  more  than  an  hour  he  sat  silent 
and  gloomy,  staring  with  unseeing 
eyes  at  the  rifled  cache.  Then  he  rose, 
and  there  was  a  new  look  in  his 
face ;  it  was  hatred  and  stern  purpose 
and  he  buckled  his  holster  about  his 
waist. 

At  the  Grub  Stake,  while  waiting 
for  the  evening  stage,  he  learned  that 
Denton  had  taken  the  noon  stage  and 
that  he  had  carried  a  large  bag  that 
seemed  to  be  heavy.  It  could  not  have 
contained  all  of  the  dust,  some  of  it 
must  have  been  cached;  but  he  had 
gone,  and  with  him  all  of  Harper's 
faith  in  his  fellow  man. 

"I'm  going  to  catch  him,"  Harper 
confided  to  the  Sheriff,  "and  when  I 
do  I  guess  there  won't  be  any  need 
of  an  inquest  to  find  out  that  he's 
dead." 


"Better  go  careful,"  urged  the 
Sheriff.  "They  don't  care  for  gun- 
play back  East." 

"  I  'm  not  doing  this  to  please  them, ' ' 
reminded  Harper,  as  he  climbed 
aboard  the  stage,  and  the  Sheriff  knew 
that  it  would  be  short  shrift  for 
Denton  should  he  be  found. 

New  York  is  a  large  place  and 
Harper  searched  the  directory  in  vain 
for  the  Denton  he  sought.  There  were 
many  in  the  huge  volume,  but  not  the 
man  he  wanted,  tho  he  visited  each 
in  turn.  Day  after  day  he  set  out  on 
his  quest,  ever  hopeful  that  he  would 
find  the  man  who  had  played  him 
false. 

He  was  on  the  search  in  the  suburbs 
when  there  was  a  cry  from  the 
passers-by,  and  he  turned  in  time  to 
see  a  speeding  automobile  knock  down 
a  little  child.  The  people  surged  about 
the  car,  but  Harper  was  first  upon  the 
scene  and  it  was  he  who  raised  the 
little  one  from  the  dust. 

The  self-important  small  boy  vol- 


HE     TURNED     IN     TIME     TO     SEE     A     SPEEDING     AUTOMOBILE     KNOCK     DOWN     A 

LITTLE     CHILD. 


12 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


'I'LL    GIVE    YOU    TEN    SECONDS    TO    SAY    YOUR    PRAYERS. 


unteered  to  show  the  way  to  her  home, 
and  leaving  the  policeman  to  get  the 
address  of  the  owner  of  the  car  Harper 
bore  his  burden  as  gently  as  could  a 
woman,  nor  did  he  lay  the  burden 
down  until  her  own  little  bed  was 
ready  and  the  doctor  had  come. 

"I'd  like  to  come  out  to-morrow  and 
see  if  she's  all  right,"  he  said  awk- 
wardly to  the  mother,  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  the  next  day  Harper, 
ladened  with  fruits  and  toys,  was 
ushered  into  the  tiny  room  where  the 
little  sufferer  lay,  her  sprained  limbs 
tightly  bandaged. 

Harper  loved  children,  and  he  was 
soon  deep  in  the  intricacies  of  a  fairy 
tale,  while  the  mother  stole  out  to 
take  advantage  of  the  respite  to  attend 
to  her  household  tasks. 

" — And  so  the  Princess  turned  and 
said,"  he  recited,  then  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  gave  utterance  to  some- 
thing that  was  very  unlike  the  lan- 
guage of  a  Princess  in  a  fairy  tale. 
Like  a  flash  his  gun  was  whipped  from 
its  holster,  and  he  stood  with  the  ugly 


muzzle  pointing  to  the  heart  of  the 
man  who  had  been  his  pal. 

"I've  found  you,"  he  cried,  forget- 
ful of  the  child.  "  I  've  found  you,  you 
thieving  cur.  I  swore  when  I  found 
you  that  I  would  shoot  to  kill  and  I'm 
going  to  do  it,  Denton." 

"Jack!  Are  you  crazy?"  cried 
Denton  as  he  saw  the  light  of  madness 
in  the  other's  eyes. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  came  the  response. 
"You'd  be  crazy,  too,  if  your  pal  had 
done  you  dirt." 

"  I !  How  ? ' '  There  was  conviction 
in  Denton's  tones,  but  Harper  gave 
no  heed. 


You     know     well     enough, 


he 


snarled.  "Don't  lie  out  of  it,  now  I 
have  you  cornered.  I'll  give  you  ten 
seconds  to  say  your  prayers.  One, 
two—" 

Denton  could  not  speak.  He  did  not 
understand  what  had  happened.  He 
could  not  imagine  what  his  offense  had 
been. 

"Three — four — five — "  Harper  was 
counting  slowly,  and  with  the  solemn 


PALS 


13 


tones  of  a  judge  pronouncing  a  death 
sentence. 

' '  Six — seven — eight — nine — ' ' 
The  finger  on  the  trigger  trembled. 

' '  Don 't  you  f righten  my  papa !  Don 't 
Don't!" 

Both  men  had  forgotten  the  child 
in  the  tense  moments.  The  cry  broke 
the  spell.  Harper  let  the  pistol  fall 
to  his  side. 

"The  kid  saved  you,"  he  said 
huskily.  l '  Let  me  go  before  the  crazi- 
ness  comes  again:" 

He  turned  toward  the  door,  but 
Mrs.  Denton  blocked  the  way.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  telegraph  envelope 
which  she  offered  to  her  husband. 
Denton  read  and  passed  the  yellow 
sheet  to  his  pal. 


"The  greaser  got  the  money,"  the 
wire  ran.  "He  borrowed  a  horse  to 
take  it  across  the  border,  and  that  is 
how  we  happened  to  get  him.  He 
confessed.  Try  and  locate  Harper 
and  tell  him.    He's  looking  for  you." 

The  slip  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
Harper  turned  to  his  friend. 

"I  ain't  worthy,  after  the  way  I 
acted,"  he  said  huskily,  "but  if  you 
can  forgive — . " 

A  handclasp  was  the  answer  and 
Harper  turned  to  the  little  bed  and 
placed  an  arm  about  the  frightened 
child. 

"We'll  make  her  the  third  pal,"  he 
said  tenderly.  "That  morning  I 
blasted  out  the  pay  streak  and  there's 
gold  enough  for  three  good  pals." 


Miss  Clara  Williams 


Miss  Clara  Williams  is  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
the  picture  players.  While  she  has  had  fine  success  in 
various  other  roles,  she  excels  in  the  plays  of  the  West. 
Having  spent  several  years  on  a  cattle  ranch,  she  is 
familiar  with  the  real  cowboy,  she  is  an  expert  horse- 
woman, and  a  lover  of  out-door  life.  All  of  Miss 
Williams'  impersonations  are  highly  artistic. 


Notable    Bits   from    Photoplays 


A     SPIRITED     SCENE     FROM     "THE     BUCCANEERS.' 


14 


Birds  and  Birdmen 


By  J.  Stuart  Blackton 


Illustrated  with  Photographs  by  the  Author 


OTORING  thru  Long  Island  one  crisp 
brilliant  day  in  October  several 
years  ago,  we  slowed  down  at  the 
intersection  of  two  picturesque  ways 
where  thickly  wooded  glades  ran 
to  the  road's  edge  on  either 
side,  and  halted  our  car  where,  thru 
a  vista  of  crimson  and  golden  leaves, 
a  glimpse  of  sparkling  water  and  yel- 
low marshland  redolent  of  a  George 
Innes  landscape,  tempted  us  to  tarry 
and  spread  our  "al  fresco"  lunch. 

Half  an  hour  later,  with  a  cigar  be- 
tween my  teeth  and  feeling  at  peace 
with  all  the  world,  I  lay  flat  on  my 
back  and  looked  straight  up  into  the 
many-hued  sky;  looked  just  for  the 
sake  of  looking,  and  saw,  presently, 
half  a  dozen  tiny  black  specks  which 
finally  took  shape  and  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  flock  of  wild  geese.     On 


16 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


they    came,    straight    and 
true,    until,    on    outspread 
pinions,   they  floated  direct- 
ly above  me.     Suddenly  from 
the  marsh,   a  heron  rose  with 
raucous  cry  and  flapped  grace- 
fully up  and  over  the  tree  tops, 
while  almost  simultaneously  a  flock 
of  wild  ducks  whirred  out  of  the 
water  and  streamed  out  like  a  pen- 
nant  swirled   by   the    autumn    wind. 


The  geese  with  one  accord  swept  ma- 
jestically in  a  circle,  and  then,  as  if 
having  decided  unanimously  on  their 
direction,  headed  due  South  and  in  a 
few  seconds  disappeared. 

Life  did  not  seem  so  satisfactory; 
I  envied  those  birds,  envied  their  won- 
derful freedom  of  flight,  their  marvel- 
ous mastery  of  the  domains  of  the  air, 
a  kingdom  yet  unconquered  by  man, 
and  wondered  if  human  science  or  in- 
ventive genius  would  ever  put  hu- 
manity on  an  equality  with  the  goose 
in  the  matter  of  flying. 

Last  October  at  Belmont  Park,   a 
few    miles    from    the    same    spot    on 
Long  Island,  on  the  same  kind  of  a 
day,  I  lay  back  on  the  rear  seat  of  a 
touring  car  and  watched  two  tiny 
specks  so  far  up  that  occasionally 
they  would  be  lost  in  a  rose-col- 
ored cloud  that  appeared  to  be 
trying     to     blot     them     out. 
Steadily    they    grew    larger 
and     more     distinct     until 
every  detail  could  be  seen 
limned   in   black   tracery 
against  the  glowing  arch 
of  the  heavens. 

My    query    of    five 


LE   BLANC'S    MONOPLANE    IN    THE    AIR    AND   AFTER    CUTTING    A    TELEGRAPH    POLE 

IN    TWO. 


18 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


years  previous  was  answered 
— they    were    not    geese — the 
two    specks    were    Johnstone 
and  Hoxsey   descending  from 
an  altitude  flight  of  nearly  ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  earth's 
surface.      As    they   neared    the 
ground   another   shadow   passed 
athwart  my  vision,  and  Latham 
in       his       bird-like       monoplane 
swooped   gracefully   upwards,    the 
golden  sunset  glinting  on  the  under 
side    of    his    broad    pinions    as    he 
swerved  and  dipped  in  his  circling 
flight,  paraphrasing  the  heron  whom 
I  had  not  forgotten. 

And  still  more  wonders !  Here 
were  the  "wild  ducks,"  the  saucy 
little  Demoiselles,  and  the  baby 
Wright ;  Grahame-White  's  Bleriot  and 
Moisant's  monoplane,  nine  in  all,  cir- 
cling and  wheeling;  crossing  and  re- 
crossing;  whirring  and  buzzing  until 
the  air  seemed  to  be,  and  literally 
was,  full  of  huge  bird-like  creations, 
conceived,  built  and  operated  by  the 
genius,  skill  and  daring  of  man.  The 
domain  of  the  air  was  conquered.  This 
is  a  story  of  conquest. 

Later  in  the  week  little  Moisant 
with  his  quiet,  confident  smile  and 
his  courageous  black  eyes,  noncha- 
lantly stepped  into  a  monoplane  that 
he  had  tried  for  only  a  few  minutes 
and  triumphantly  flew  from  the  mid- 
dle of  Long  Island  to  and  around  the 
Statue  of  Liberty  and  back  to  almost 
the  identical  spot  from  which  he 
started.    To-day  I  read  that  the  same 


intrepid  little  air  voyageur  had  flown 
four  times  over  the  city  of  Richmond. 
Another  conquest !  and  yet,  as  in 
all  conquests,  the  price  has  to  be  paid 
— the  cost  is  dreadful.  Poor,  genial, 
dare-devil  Ralph  Johnstone  has  paid 
Death's  toll  and  many  others  went 
before,  in  the  same  quest,  and  still 
more  will  follow.  So,  after  all,  is  the 
question  answered  yet?  Can  man 
with  all  his  human  intelligence  be 
compared,  so  far  as  flying  goes,  with 
the  simple  goose  ? 

"A   double   task   to   paint   the   finest 

features   of   the  mind,    and   to   most 

subtle    and    mysterious    things    give 

color,      strength     and     motion." — 

A  li  e  n  side. 

"A  work  of  art  is  said  to  be  per- 
fect in  proportion  as  it  does  not 
remind  the  spectator  of  the  pro- 
cess by  which  it  was  created." — 
Tuckerman. 


''The  object  of  art  is  to  crys- 
talize    emotion    into    thought, 

and  then  to  fix  it  in  form." — 

Delsarte. 


Abraham  Lincoln's  Clemency 


A  Prose  Version  of  Francis  De  Haes  Janiver's  Famous  Poem, 
'The  Sleeping  Sentinel" 


It  was  against  the  regulations,  and 
only  a  few  days  before,  the  General 
had  laid  special  stress  upon  the 
importance  of  obeying  to  the  very 
letter  the  injunctions  laid  down,  but 
habit  breeds  contempt  for  infraction. 
An  all-day  scouting  trip  had  tired  the 
men,  and  Will  Scott  felt  that  it  would 
not  matter  if  for  a  few  moments  he  sat 
down  to  rest  his  tired  limbs.  He  was 
almost  at  the  end  of  his  tour  of  duty, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
not  remain  standing  until  the  relief 
came  wrhen  he  could  find  rest  in  the 
guard  tent. 

He  only  meant  to  rest  for  a  moment 
but  almost  on  the  very  instant,  his 
head  sank  forward,  and  forgetfulness 
from  his  weariness  came  in  blessed 
sleep. 

He  was  back  again  on  the  green 
Vermont  hillsides,  and  presently  he 
would  go  back  to  the  old  homestead, 
where  a  huge  cut  of  apple  pie  and  a 
draft  of  milk  would  assuage  a  hunger 
made  the  more  keen  by  his  tramp 
thro  fields  and  woods.  He  was  just 
in  sight  of  the  home,  as  he  thought, 
when  a  shot  was  heard — perhaps 
Dick  Hoe  was  shooting  squirrels  with 
the  old  long-bore  rifle  that  had  been 
his  grandfather's  before  him. 
"Post  number  seven!" 

That  expression  had  no  part  in  the 
Vermont  picture.  Post  seven?  Why 
that  was  his  post:  the  beat  he  had 
been  set  to  guard.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet,  rubbing  his  sleep-heavy  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  his  heart  seemed  to 
cease  its  beating.  Before  him  stood 
the   sergeant   and   the   relief  patrol. 


Will's  own  gun  still  smoked  from  its 
recent  discharge,  and  far  down  the 
line  he  could  hear  repeated  tne  call: 
"Corporal  of  the  Guard!  Post  num- 
ber seven ! ' ' 

The  camp,  roused  by  the  alarm 
shot,  was  quickly  astir,  and  the  red- 
sashed  officer  of  the  day  came  hurry- 
ing to  the  scene.  At  command,  Will 
stepped  in  between  his  comrades,  and 
he  marched  off  to  the  guard  tent,  not 
as  a  member  of  the  relieved  party, 
but  as  a  prisoner,  charged  with  being 
asleep  on  post. 

Court  martial  convened  in  the 
morning.  The  Judge  Advocate  made 
his  plea  with  a  wealth  of  forensic  elo- 
quence, but  he  knew  that  he  urged  a 
hopeless  cause.  Will  Scott  had  been 
caught  asleep  on  post,  and  "Post 
seven"  at  that,  which  was  the  direct 
approach  to  Chain  Bridge,  the  road 
to  Washington  from  the  Virginia 
shore.  Just  beyond  the  lines  were  en- 
camped the  Confederates,  so  close,  in- 
deed, that  tobacco  from  the  Southern 
ranks  was  daily  exchanged  for  sugar, 
tea  and  flour  from  the  North.  The 
fraternizing  of  the  outposts  of  the  two 
armies  was  a  thing  before  unheard  of. 
Strong  measures  were  needed  to  stamp 
it  out  before  serious  consequences  re- 
sulted. For  the  good  of  the  discipline 
of  the  entire  army,  Will  Scott  must 
die,  and  not  even  Will  himself  was 
surprised  when  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced. He  was  to  die  within  the 
week. 

There  was  time  for  the  ministra- 
tions of  the  regimental  Chaplain,  time 
to  get  a  letter  to  the  dear  old  Mother 

19 


20 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


IN    THE    LIBRARY    OF    THE    WHITE    HOUSE    A    TALL,    GAUNT    MAN    LOOKED    DOWN 

UPON   THE    ROWS   OP   TENTS. 


in  Vermont,  and  with  a  keen  eye  for 
effect,  General  Smith — "Baldy" 
Smith  as  he  was  known  to  his  men — 
argued  that  the  lesson  for  the  others 
would  be  the  stronger  if  the  execu- 
tion of  sentence  was  delayed.  The 
men  were  used  to  the  instant  snuffing 
out  of  life,  and  the  sight  of  Scott  wait- 
ing day  after  day  to  meet  his  doom 
would  be  vastly  more  effective. 

It  was  night.  On  the  lots  back  of 
the  White  House  rose  a  white  city  of 
war.  The  tents,  newly  issued  to  the 
recruits,  still  were  white  in  the  moon- 
light, for  these  latest  volunteers  had 
not  seen  service  and  were  waiting 
impatiently  for  orders  to  move 
South  when  some  discipline  had 
been  instilled  into  the  untrained 
companies. 

In  the  library  of  the  White  House, 
a  tall,  gaunt  man,  whose  face  was 
beautiful  for  its  very  homeliness, 
looked  down  upon  the  row  of  tents. 

Upon  the  strong,  homely  face  there 
was  a  look  of  anguished  sorrow  such 
as  the  face  of  Christ  might  have  worn 
in   the    garden    of   Gethsemane;    for 


Abraham  Lincoln,  stern  of  face,  but 
tender  in  heart  as  any  woman,  knew 
that  many  of  those  who  slept  beneath 
the  white  canvas  soon  would  sleep  the 
last  sleep  of  death  beneath  the  red 
clay  of  Virginia,  and  his  heart  wept 
for  those  mothers  who  would  mourn 
their  lost  firstborn. 

The  cause  was  just  and  holy,  but  he 
had  plunged  the  country  into  war  and 
he  felt  a  personal  responsibility  to  the 
thousands  whose  unmarked  graves 
were  filled  before  their  time. 

He  did  not  see  the  broad  Potomac, 
flowing  in  silver  tranquillity  past  the 
sleeping  city ;  he  did  not  see  the  broad 
sweep  of  the  flats,  or  the  headlands 
across  the  eastern  branch.  His  gaze 
passed  beyond  these  to  the  scenes  of 
carnage,  where  brother  fought  against 
brother,  and  the  flower  of  the  land 
was  laid  low. 

There  came,  too,  the  vision  of  that 
Vermont  home  from  which  had  come 
that  day  an  appeal  for  the  life  of  Will- 
iam Scott  of  the  Third  Vermont.  It 
was  a  simple  little  letter,  eloquent  not 
in  words  but  in  the  simplicity  of  the 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  CLEMENCY 


21 


mother's  plea  for  her  only  boy  who 
was  to  die  disgraced. 

He  received  hundreds  of  such  let- 
ters, and  they  never  lost  their  appeal ; 
but  he  had  granted  pardons  until  Sec- 
retary Stanton  had  declared  that  he 
was  destroying  discipline  and  had 
made  the  President  half  promise  that 
he  would  withhold  all  pardons  in  the 
future. 

It  had  only  been  a  half  promise,  and 
altho  he  meant  to  keep  it,  the  Presi- 
dent found  it  desperately  hard.  And 
something  about  this  letter,  its  con- 
vincing simplicity,  perhaps,  had 
strangely  moved  him.  Full  half  the 
night  he  had  worked  over  plans,  re- 
ports and  dispatches,  his  heart  strings 
torn  by  their  stories  of  death  and  de- 
feat. 

Out  on  the  Virginia  plains,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  a  firing  squad, 
still  dull  with  sleep,  and  with  no 
relish  for  their  detail,  listlessly  made 
their  way  to  the  scene  of  execution. 
A  week  had  passed,  and  Will  Scott 
marched  with  head  erect  between  his 
companions,  whose  rifles  he  would 
presently  face. 


Bravely  he  took  his  stand  before 
them.  Bravely  he  raised  his  head  as 
the  Sergeant  gave  the  command  to 
make  ready,  altho  he  knew  that  next 
would  come  "Aim,"  and  "Fire,"  and 
with  the  last,  a  deafening  roar  that 
would  be  to  him  the  last  earthly 
sound. 
"Aim!" 

His  muscles  stiffened  and  he  waited 
the  last  command. 
"Halt!" 

It  was  not  the  Sergeant's  voice,  and 
the  hoof  beats  told  of  the  approach 
of  an  orderly.  It  could  not  be  a  re- 
prieve. "What  could  it  mean? 

The  bandage  was  torn  from  his  eyes. 
An  orderly  from  another  regiment 
was  standing  beside  the  sergeant,  and 
thru  the  dust  that  mingled  with  the 
morning  mist  a  carriage  was  seen  to 
approach,  and  presently  the  tall  form 
of  the  President,  taller  still  for  the 
old  fashioned  high  hat,  came  upon  the 
scene. 

"I  need  live  soldiers  more  than  I  do 
dead  ones,"  he  said  to  the  officer.  "I 
pardon  William  Scott. ' ' 

He  handed  the  formal  pardon  to  the 


'HIS    HEARTSTRINGS    TORN    BY    THE     STORIES    OP    DEATH    AND    DEFEAT.' 


22 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STOEY  MAGAZINE 


ALL    HIS    MUSCLES    STIFFENED    AND    HE    WAITED    THE    LAST    COMMAND. 


man,  and  turned  to  Will,  who  was 
speechless  with  joy. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  severely,  "I 
have  been  put  to  a  lot  of  expense  to 
save  your  life.  How  are  you  going  \o 
pay  me!" 

"We  c'n  mortgage  the  farm,"  sug- 
gested Will,  offering  the  only  solu- 
tion he  could  find.  Lincoln  placed  his 
huge  hands  on  Vein's  shoulders. 

' '  That  is  not  enough, ' '  he  said  kindly. 
"Repay  me  by  showing  that  I  have 
done  well  in  saving  a  man  from  dis- 
grace. Prove  that  he  was  worthy  of 
that  effort,  and  I  shall  not  regret  my 
lost  sleep." 

"I  promise,"  cried  Will,  as  the 
President  turned  away,  and  his  words 
had  the  sanctity  of  an  oath. 

Again  night,  and  a  city  of  tents, 
but  this  time  they  are  crude  shelters, 
the  makeshifts  of  the  Southern  army, 
stained  by  storm  and  soil;  and,  over 
the  field  where  all  day  the  battle 
raged,  the  boys  in  grey,  by  lantern 
light,  picked  their  careful  way, 
searching  for  the  least  spark  of  life 
in  friend  or  foe.  In  the  hospital  tents, 
the  surgeons,  soaked  in  blood,  perform 


hasty  amputations,  or  probe  for  hid- 
den bullets,  and  the  brave  women  of 
the  South  lend  their  gentle  ministra- 
tions to  their  heroes  and  to  their  ene- 
mies without  discrimination.  It  is 
enough  that  they  suffer. 

In  one  corner  of  a  field,  half  hidden 
by  a  fence,  Will  Scott  moves  delir- 
iously. Bravely  he  had  fought  to  hold 
the  position, ...  urging  his  comrades  to 
defend  their,  post,  and  the  Third  Ver- 
mont had  done  much  to  lessen  the 
decisiveness  of  the  Southern  victory. 
In  the  camp  of  the  Third,  where  they 
had  halted  in  their  retreat,  the  men 
speak  in  whispers  of  Scott's  bravery, 
and  even  "Baldy"  Smith  admits  that 
"Old  Abe  knew  what  he  was  doing" 
when  he  let  Scott  go  free. 

On  the  field,  Will  Scott  looks  up, 
and  in  his  dream  he  sees  the  President 
approach,  the  kindly  smile  upon  his 
face,  in  his  hand  a  wreath  of  laurel. 
He  half  raises  himself  upon  a  shat- 
tered arm. 

"Then  you  knew  I  kept  my  prom- 
ise!" he  cried  with  joy,  and  with  a 
happy  smile  upon  his  face  he  falls 
back — dead. 


24 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


Bit,  o^jw       iSj^oBraBiHa 

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'I    PROMISE  !"    CRIED   WILL,   AND   HIS    WORDS    HAD   THE    SOLEMNITY    OF   AN    OATH. 


The  field  surgeon,  hurrying  hither, 
kneels  beside  him  and  feels  his  heart. 
"Pass  on,"  he  orders,  as  he  lets  the 
limp  arm  fall.    "We  are  too  late." 


Will  Scott  had  kept  his  promise.  He 
had  proven  himself  worthy  of  his  par- 
don. He  had  fought  for  his  flag  and 
honor. 


Vitalizing  the  Teaching 
of  History 


Reclothing     the    Dry   Bones    of    the    Dead 
Past    with    the    Living    Flesh    of     Reality 


To  the  average  schoolboy  the  per- 
sonages of  history  mean  very 
little.  It  is  true  that  a  few  of 
the  favorite  generals  of  the  Eevolu- 
tion  or  of  the  Civil  War  are  possessed 
of  a  sort  of  fictitious  reality,  but  to 
most  of  our  healthy-minded  children 
it  is  unreasonable  to  expect  them  to 
be  interested  in  the  dry  facts  of  his- 
tory. 

The  American  boy  knows  the  heroes 


of  the  baseball  field  as  he  will  never 
know  Napoleon;  the  former  are  flesh 
and  blood  and  the  latter  is  hidden  be- 
tween a  worn-out  cover  of  a  History 
of  France.  It  remained  for  the  mo- 
tion picture  producer  to  raise  from 
these  dead  pages  of  history,  real  he- 
roes and  stories  of  the  past  that  will 
live  in  memory  and  hold  the  interest 
of  the  schoolboy  spellbound.  It 's  his- 
tory disguised  as  fun. 


The  Life  of  Moliere 


Moliere  is  one  of  the  rarest  order  of  poets,  whose  very  faults 
become  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  admirers.  He  is  not  only  revered 
as  a  master,  but  beloved  by  us  as  a  friend.  Of  all  the  French 
dramatists,  he  is  the  only  one  whose  genius  is  as  conspicuous  to  foreign 
nations  as  it  is  to  his  own.  Like  Shakespeare,  he  is  for  all  time 
and  for  all  races. — Buhver,  "Essays." 

Moliere  is  perhaps,  of  all  French  writers,  the  one  whom  his  country 
has  most  uniformly  admired,  and  in  whom  her  critics  are  most  un- 
willing to  acknowledge  faults. — Hallam,  "Middle  Ages." 

Living  in  the  blindest  period  of  the  world's  history,  in  the  most 
luxurious  city,  and  the  most  corrupted  court,  of  the  time,  he  yet 
manifests  thru  all  his  writings  an  exquisite  natural  wisdom;  a 
capacity  for  the  most  simple  enjoyment;  a  high  sense  of  nobleness, 
honor,  and  purity,  variously  marked  thruout  his  slighter  work,  but 
distinctly  made  the  theme  of  his  two  perfect  plays — the  Tartuffe 
and  Misanthrope;  and  in  all  that  he  says  of  art  or  science  he  has 
an  unerring  instinct  for  what  is  useful  and  sincere,  and  uses  his 
whole  power  to  defend  it,  with  as  keen  a  hatred  of  everything  affected 
and  vain. — Buskin,  "Modern  Painters." 

Here  Moliere,  first  of  comic  wits,  excell'd 
Whate'er  Athenian  theatres  beheld; 
By  keen,  yet  decent,  satire  skill  'd  to  please, 
With  morals  mirth  uniting,  strength  with  ease. 

— Lord  Lyttleton,-  "Letters." 

Moliere — whose  name  is  the  greatest  in  the  literature  of  France 
and  who,  in  the  literature  of  the  modern  drama,  is  the  greatest  after 
Shakespeare — the  great  actor-playwright  who  excelled  in  comedy  and 
who  was  far  ahead  of  his  time  in  tragic  declamation ;  the  genius  who 
was  decried  and  villified  by  competitors  whose  eyes  were  blinded  by 
jealousy  to  his  real  greatness ;  the  husband  who  suffered  tortures  in 
his  domestic  life,  thru  the  unfaithfulness  of  the  wife  whom  he  loved 
to  distraction;  the  one-time  strolling  player  who  put  rural  France 
into  spasms  of  laughter,  and  the  polished  comedian  who  contributed 
still  greater  distinction  to  the  splendors  of  the  most  illustrious  court 
that  the  world  has  ever  known. — James  S.  McQuade. 


Jean  Baptiste  Moliere  was  born 
on  the  fifteenth  of  January, 
.622,  and  he  flourished  during 
the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  His  life  was 
an  eventful  one,  his  career  was  pic- 
turesque, and  now,  after  more  than 
three  centuries  have  passed,  he  is  pro- 


nounced The  Shakespeare  of  France. 
It  was  a  splendid  thought  that 
prompted  the  photo-artists  to  produce 
"The  Life  of  Moliere"  in  moving 
pictures,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
reproduce  in  this  magazine  a  few 
of  the  many  beautiful  pictures,  some 
of  which  are  here  shown. 


25 


\ . 


THE  LIFE  OF  MOLIERE 


27 


MOLIERE'S    BOYHOOD    WAS     SPENT    IN    A    THEATRICAL    ENVIRONMENT. 


We  first  see  Moliere  at  work  in  his 
father's  shop,  when  a  boy.  All  the 
employees  are  busy  at  their  appointed 
tasks,  except  the  youthful  playwright, 
who  snatches  time  to  re-read  one  of 
his  earlier  efforts.  The  door  opens 
and  Scaramouche,  the  Italian  comedi- 
an, enters  in  quest  of  a  particular  style 
of  chair.  Moliere  tenders  his  play 
for  perusal ;  but,  just  as  Scaramouche 
begins  to  be  interested,  Poquelin,  the 
father  of  Moliere,  comes  in  unex- 
pectedly, and  the  play  is  hastily 
thrown  out  of  sight.  Again  the  boy 
poet  places  it  in  the  comedian's  hand, 
and  some  clever  work  is  done  by 
Scaramouche,  as  he  tries  to  read  the 
manuscript  without  being  detected  by 
the  stern  upholsterer. 

The  next  scene  shows  Moliere  at 
the  Louvre  palace,  where  he  meets 
Louis  XIV  for  the  first  time.  Here 
we  see  the  scorn  of  the  courtiers  for 
the  actor-dramatist,  and  their  conster- 
nation over  the  consideration  shown 
him  by  their  king.    This  scene  will  be 


remembered  for  the  delicate  beauty  of 
the  interiors  shown. 

Next  we  view  the  stately  splendor 
of  the  festival  at  Versailles,  where 
hundreds  of  courtiers,  ladies  in  wait- 
ing and  great  nobles  attend  on  the 
king.  The  beauty  of  the  court  cos- 
tumes, which  in  that  time  set  the 
fashion  for  all  the  royal  houses  in 
Europe,  and  the  courtly  air  and  de- 
meanor of  every  individual  in  the 
royal  pageant,  have  been  faithfully 
reproduced.  One  cannot  but  marvel 
at  the  excellence  of  the  training  of 
this  vast  throng  of  players,  every  one 
of  which  acts  his  or  her  part  as  if  to 
the  manor  born. 

As  Moliere  comes  into  the  scene,  the 
acting  of  the  king,  of  the  courtiers, 
and  of  the  great  actor  himself,  is  fault- 
less. When  the  king  places  his  arm 
around  Moliere 's  shoulders  and  walks 
off  with  him,  it  is  a  delight  to  watch 
the  faces  of  the  surprised  and  jealous 
followers;  and,  when  next  we  see 
Louis  seated   at   table  with  Moliere, 


28 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


HIS     LAST     APPEARANCE. 


serving  him  with  his  own  hands,  the 
cnp  of  the  courtiers  is  full. 

The  scene  showing  the  distraction  of 
Moliere  over  the  desertion  of  his  wife, 
is  a  pathetic  picture,  and  displays 
talented  emotional  acting.  Then, 
when  she  appears,  and  we  watch  the 
play  of  coquetry  on  her  witching  face, 
just  before  she  finally  leaves  him,  and 
note  her  charm  of  manner  and  grace 
of  deportment,  we  do  not  wonder  at 
poor  Moliere 's  abandonment  to  de- 
spair. The  attempt  of  the  faithful 
maid-servant  to  arouse  Moliere  from 
his  apathy  and  melancholy,  is  a  bril- 
liant specimen  of  silent  acting  in  both 
roles. 

The  last  appearance  of  Moliere,  and 
his  first  in  the  role  of  Malade,  in  the 
notable  production  of  his  own  famous 
work,  "La  Malade  Imaginaire,"  is  a 


fine  depiction  of  the  stage  of  the  ten- 
nis court  theatre,  and  of  the  French 
manner  of  acting  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  He  was  seized  with  con- 
vulsions while  acting  this  part,  and 
died  soon  after,  on  February  17, 
1673. 

The  closing  scene  shows  a  statue 
of  the  dramatist  at  Versailles,  in  bust 
form.  By  means  of  a  dissolving  scene, 
the  bust  is  surrounded  by  a  throng  of 
notables,  assembled  at  its  dedication 
to  the  poet's  memory.  A  beautiful  girl 
approaches  the  statue  and  places  a 
laurel  wreath  on  the  chiseled  brow; 
then,  as  if  by  magic,  a  similar  wreath 
is  seen  in  the  uplifted  hand  of  every- 
one present,  making  an  imposing  and 
fitting  apotheosis  of  the  greatest  lit- 
erary genius  that  France  has  ever 
produced. 


For  art  is  Nature  made  by  Man 
To  man  the  interpreter  of  God."- 


-Owen  Meredith. 


mmmmm 


H 


MISS    ALICE    JOYCE. 

One  of  the  familinr  figures  in  the  moving  picture  world,  find  one  of  the  most  popular,  is 
Miss  Alice  Joyce.  Miss  Joyce  made  her  debut  before  the  public  as  a  moving  picture  player, 
she  having  had  no  previous  experience  upon  the  stage  ;  hut,  from  her  grace  and  acting,  this 
would  hardly  be  believed,  even  by  the  most  critical  observer,  and  it  is  the  consensus  of  opinion 
that  the  histrionic  talents  of  Miss  Joyce  are  quite  equal  to  her  beauty — which  is  saying  a 
great  deal. 


The  Love  of  Chrysanthemum 


w 


A  Little  Tragedy  of  Japan  Wherein  a  Tourist   Fails  to 
Realize  That  Love  is  a  Sacred  Thing  the  World  Around 


w 


Koto  softly  drew  his  breath  be- 
tween his  lips,  a  sibilant  sigh 
of  satisfaction. 
"The  terms  are  well  arranged,"  he 
said,  as  he  clapped  his  hands;  then 
to  the  little  maid  who  entered  he 
added:  "Send  Miss  Chrysanthemum 
here." 

Presently  she  came,  as  pale  and 
slender  as  her  namesake  flower,  and 
with  a  frightened  look  in  her  great 
black  eyes  that  told  her  fears  of  what 


was  to  come.  She  had  seen  her  father 
in  consultation  with  the  marriage 
broker  many  times  in  the  past  week, 
and  she  knew  that  a  marriage  was 
planned. 

"It  pleases  the  honorable  Sayo  to 
make  alliance  with  this  despised 
house,"  announced  Koto,  tho  his  lips 
curled  in  scorn  as  he  uttered  the  pre- 
scribed formula,  for  his  grandfather 
had  been  a  two-sword  man,  and  none 
had  heard  of  Sayo's  father  until  the 


CHRYSANTHEMUM    PREPARES    FOR    HER    MARRIAGE. 
31 


THE  LOVE  OF  CHRYSANTHEMUM 


36 


.... 

. ...             ,  .. 

A 

Si 

fe!  ■ 

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^•B      PP*     Jf 

Mr- 

^m^ 

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*  In* 

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■MJjpr  iff 

JH 

£#*    \L 

^^ 

1 

B  f  Li 

r""~  <r# . 

*/ 

I  COULD    ONLY    THINK    OF  YOU   AS   YOU   STOOD   AGAINST   THE    CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

YESTERDAY." 


steamships  and  the  white  race  had 
come  to  curse  Nippon's  shores. 

"Surely  the  honorable  Sayo  would 
not  demean  himself  by  alliance  with 
the  poor  Chrysanthemum,"  she 
pleaded,  "and — Oh!  Honorable  Sir! 
— I  do  not  wish  to  marry.' ' 

Pleadingly  she  regarded  him,  but 
Koto  was  not  to  be  moved.  Sayo  had 
promised  ten  thousand  yen.  Chrysan- 
themum must  be  married,  some  time. 
The  girl  read  his  cold  eyes  and  steeled 
her  own. 

Mechanically  she  submitted  to  the 
ministrations  of  her  maids,  adding  the 
finishing  touches  herself  to  the  elabo- 
rate make  up  as  Koto  entered  with  the 
groom.  It  was  a  brief  ceremonial,  and 
in  a  little  while  poor  little  Chrysan- 
themum was  being  carried  to  her  new 
home,  taking  comfort  only  in  the 
thought  that  Fusi,  who  had  been  her 
handmaiden  since  her  childhood,  was 
to  go  with  her. 

Vance  Redmond,  strolling  along  the 


narrow  road,  drank  in  the  beauty  of 
the  scene  with  the  keen  appreciation 
of  the  artist.  The  rickshaw,  carrying 
the  merchant  to  his  business  office, 
attracted  his  attention  to  the  gate 
from  which  it  had  emerged,  but  the 
beauty  of  the  garden  was  not  what 
held  Redmond's  glance.  The  great 
masses  of  bloom  were  fair,  but  they 
served  only  as  a  background  to  the 
daintily  dressed  Japanese  lady  who 
sat  idly  upon  the  bench. 

Six  months  had  passed,  and  Chry- 
santhemum still  dreamed  day-dreams 
of  a  real  love. 

With  an  artist's  keen  appreciation 
of  all  things  beautiful,  Redmond 
feasted  his  senses  until  she  raised  her 
eyes,  and  their  glances  met.  There 
seemed  an  invitation  in  her  smile,  and 
with  a  courtly  salute  Redmond  pro- 
ceeded to  enter  the  garden. 

As  quickly  as  her  absurdly  small 
feet  would  permit,  she  toddled  toward 
him. 

"The  honorable  stranger  does  not 


34 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


realize  that  this  is  private  ground," 
she  reminded  him,  with  quaint  dig- 
nity, even  while  the  note  of  longing 
in  her  voice  told  of  her  desire  to  bid 
him  remain. 

Redmond's  smile  was  frank  and 
engaging.  "Your  pardon,"  he  said 
quickly.  "I  only  desired  to  ask  guid- 
ance to  the  nearest  inn." 

With  delicious  indecision  Chrysan- 
themum debated  the  question,  con- 
scious that  Fusi,  from  the  verandah, 
was  watching,  with  fear  and  disap- 
proval in  her  eyes. 

Sayo  was  a  master  not  lightly  to  be 
crossed. 

But  she  could  find  no  excuse  for 
prolonging  the  conversation  and  Red- 
mond passed  on  with  an  elaborate  bow 
and  Chrysanthemum  watched  him 
until  he  passed  from  sight.  A  touch 
upon  her  shoulder  roused  her. 

"My  lord  has  long  ears  and  a  strong 
arm,"  she  reminded.  "It  is  not  well 
that  the  Lady  Chrysanthemum  should 
speak  at  the  gate  with  the  man  from 
across  the  sea." 


' '  And  yet,  Fusi,  our  Emperor 's  edict 
requires  us  to  be  courteous  to  all 
strangers,"  she  reminded. 

"Courteous,  yes,"  admitted  Fusi, 
' '  but — ' '  she  did  not  finish  the  speech 
as  Chrysanthemum  moved  away  with 
as  much  dignity  as  she  could  com- 
mand. How  could  a  mere  servant  be 
expected  to  understand? 

He  came  again  on  the  morrow  when 
Sayo  had  been  whisked  off  to  the  town 
in  his  rickshaw,  and  this  time  Chrys- 
anthemum threw  discretion  to  the 
winds  and  came  to  the  wall  to  meet 
him. 

"I'm  coming  in,"  he  announced 
masterfully,  after  a  moment's  chat. 
"Don't  look  so  alarmed,  little  lady, 
I  know  my  way.  I  came  last  night 
when  I  could  not  sleep  and  looked  at 
your  window." 

' '  You  could  not  sleep  ? ' '  she  repeated. 
"Because " 

"Because  of  my  thoughts  of  you," 
he  cried,  as  he  took  a  seat  on  the 
bench  and  drew  her  down  beside  him. 
"I   could  only  think   of  you  as  you 


REDMOND  FOUND  THE  ABSENCE  OF  SEATS  AWKWARD. 


THE  LOVE  OF  CHRYSANTHEMUM 


35 


"I    WAS   HOMESICK    FOR   THE    SIGHT    OF   A    FAMILIAR    FACE. 


stood    against    the     chrysanthemums 
yesterday. ' ' 

He  reached  for  some  of  the  lovely 
blooms,  and  she  sank  from  the  bench 
to  the  ground  at  his  feet  where  she 
might  better  hide  her  blushing  face. 
He  filled  her  arms  with  the  flowers  he 
plucked,  taking  an  artist's  delight  in 
the  picture  he  created. 

"It  is  warm  here  in  the  sun,"  he 
said  presently,  and  Chrysanthemum 
smiled. 

"If  you  will  deign  to  enter  our  mis- 
erable house,"  she  began,  with  cere- 
monious politeness,  but  Redmond  was 
already  on  his  feet  and  was  assisting 
her  to  rise. 

1 '  That  I  will, ' '  he  cried  heartily,  and 
he  followed  her  into  the  house  where 
the  cool  shade  was  made  more  inviting 
by  light  hangings  and  matting  as  soft 
as  carpet. 

With  a  stroke  of  her  fan  against  her 
hand,  Chrysanthemum  summoned  the 
trembling  Fusi,  and  ordered  tea  for 
the     guest.       Redmond     found     the 


absence  of  seats  awkward  in  spite  of 
practice,  and  he  was  glad  when  the 
tea  ceremonial  was  over  and  he  could 
assume  a  more  comfortable  pose. 
Drawing  Chrysanthemum  toward  him 
he  drew  back  the  shapely  head  and 
pressed  a  kiss  against  her  coral  lips. 

To  Chrysanthemum  the  world 
seemed  to  stand  still.  She  had  seen 
the  European  kiss,  and  to  her  it  had 
seemed  a  silly  custom;  but  now,  it 
transported  her  to  a  new  world  of 
delight,  a  world  of  tender  love  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  cold,  formal  love  of 
Japan.  She  knew  now  why  she  had 
been  loath  to  marry  Sayo,  and  what 
it  was  she  had  longed  for  in  vain. 
She  raised  her  head  and  returned  the 
kiss,  and  with  it  she  gave  her  whole 
heart. 
1 '  Madam !  The  master  comes ! ' ' 
Redmond  did  not  understand  the 
native  tongue,  but  the  horror  in  Fusi 's 
voice  told  him  enough.  He  sprang  to 
his  feet,  his  face  drawn  and  white. 
He    felt    no    physical    fear,    but    the 


36 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


'IT    WAS    JUST    A    LITTLE    GEISHA    WHO    HAS    POSED    FOR    ME." 


scandal  would  not  be  pleasant,  and 
he  knew  that  Japanese  husbands  had 
a  most  unpleasant  trick  of  suggesting 
"  hari-kari "  to  faithless  wives.  It 
would  be  too  bad  should  the  flower- 
like  little  woman  be  compelled  to  pay 
so  high  a  price.  The  thought  dazed 
him. 

The  quick-witted  Fusi  pushed  him 
behind  a  screen  and  sank  to  her  knees 
before  the  empty  teacup.  Sayo 
glanced  keenly  at  the  cups — it  was 
not  usual  that  the  maid  drank  with 
the  mistress,  and  Chrysanthemum's 
manner  betrayed  her  nervousness ;  but 
he  found  nothing  to  confirm  suspicion 
tho  once  he  actually  leaned  upon  the 
screen  behind  which  Redmond  was  in 
hiding. 

To  Redmond  it  seemed  hours  before 
the  husband  left  the  room,  but  at  last 
he  went,  and,  with  a  hurried  promise 
to  return,  he  dashed  past  the  rickshaw 
man  and  was  gone. 

Redmond,   sitting  in  front   of  the 


hotel  the  next  morning,  sprang  to 
his  feet  as  a  party  of  tourists  entered. 
He  had  spent  a  bad  night  thinking 
of  what  might  have  happened  to  poor 
little  Chrysanthemum.  Men  and 
women  of  his  own  race  would  keep 
him  out  of  mischief  for  a  while.  But 
his  impersonal  interest  was  turned  to 
an  active  one  as  he  spied  Alice  Lang- 
ley. 

1 '  Vance ! ' '  she  cried  as  he  seized  her 
suitcase.  ''What  good  fortune  brings 
you  here?  I  was  homesick  for  the 
sight  of  a  familiar  face,  and  here  you 
spring  out  of  the  ground. ' ' 

"I  haven't  been  planted  yet,"  he 
answered  with  a  laugh ;  ' '  but  I  might 
as  well  have  been  buried  underground 
as  to  be  in  this  deserted  inn." 

"You  libel  the  place,"  she  protested. 
"It  seems  a  most  delightful  spot.  The 
country  is  beautiful.  You  must  show 
me  the  most  picturesque  landscapes 
you  have  found." 

"I'll  be  delighted,"  he  cried  sin- 
cerely, as  they  moved  toward  the  hotel. 


THE  LOVE  OF  CHRYSANTHEMUM 


37 


"VANCE— WE    ARE    WAITING    FOR    YOU.      ARE    YOU    COMING 


Remove  the  dust  of  travel  as  quickly 
as  possible,  and  the  exploration  shall 
commence. ' ' 

He  handed  the  suitcase  over  to  a 
Japanese,  and  with  a  laughing  warn- 
ing to  her  to  be  quick,  he  turned 
again  to  his  chair,  but  now  the  ennui 
had  vanished.  A  sedan  chair  was  com- 
ing down  the  road,  the  bearers  advanc- 
ing at  a  trot.  As  they  drew  nearer,  he 
uttered  an  impatient  oath  for 
Chrysanthemum  was  leaning  from 
the  chair,  her  face  aglow  with  love 
and  welcome. 

"You  did  not  come,"  she  reproached, 
as  Redmond  assisted  her  from  the 
chair.  I  waited  very  long  and  then — 
I  came.    Was  it  very  wrong?" 

"It  was  not  wise,"  he  said,  gently, 
and  Chrysanthemum  winced  at  the 
reproof  in  his  tones. 

"But  you  did  not  come,"  she 
reminded,  "so  it  was  that  I  must 
come  to  you." 

"I  was  coming,"  he  explained 
rapidly,    fearful    that    Alice    might 


return,  "but  some  friends  arrived;  I 
will  come  later — this  evening." 

' '  This  evening  ? ' '  she  repeated.  ' '  You 
will  surely  come?" 

"Surely,"  he  cried.  "I  will  come  to 
find  you  waiting  by  the  chrysanthe- 
mums. ' ' 

Slowly  she  turned,  and  as  she  did 
so  Alice  Langley  ran  down  the  steps. 

"Was  I  very  long?"  she  asked 
archly,  ' '  or  was  I  too  soon  ? ' ' 

She  glanced  meaningly  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  chair  had  disap- 
peared.   Redmond  colored. 

"Not  a  moment  too  soon,"  he 
declared,  ignorant  that  Chrysanthe- 
mum had  halted  her  bearers  and  had 
stolen  upon  the  hotel  porch  to  listen 
jealously  to  what  this  "friend"  might 
have  to  say.  "It  was  just  a  little 
Geisha  who  has  posed  for  me.  I'll 
get  my  sketching  kit  and  we'll  start 
out." 

They  hurried  into  the  hotel,  and 
with  trembling  steps  little  Chrysan- 
themum crept  toward  her  chair.    He 


38 


THE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY    MAGAZINE 


1 

1 

,' 

1        ESS 

•*• 

NEVER  BEFORE  HAD  SHE  SEEN  HIM  IN  ANGER. 


had  called  her  a  Geisha,  a  dancing 
woman  of  the  tea  houses! — but  he 
would  come  to  her  that  evening,  and 
perhaps  then  he  could  explain.  These 
Europeans  had  so  many  strange  ways. 
But  the  little  woman,  waiting  in  the 
fragrant  night,  was  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment. Redmond,  sitting  with 
Alice  Langley,  was  pouring  out  the 
story  of  his  love  into  not  unwilling 
ears.  He  had  drawn  out  his  watch  to 
show  her  her  own  picture  in  the  case, 
when  the  action  reminded  him  of  his 
tryst  with  Chrysanthemum,  and  he 
started  up  guiltily. 

1  'Where  are  you  going,  Vance?"  she 
asked,  as  he  caught  up  his  hat. 

"An  appointment  I  had  forgotten," 
he  answered,  ill  at  ease. 

"Important?" 

"Very." 

1 '  Then  prove  your  love  by  remaining 
here  with  me  and  forgetting  this  very 
important  engagement,"  she  com- 
manded. 

Slowly  Vance  sank  upon  the  bench. 
Alice,  with  a  quiet  smile  of  triumph, 


offered  her  lips  for  the  betrothal  kiss, 
and  all  else  was  forgotten. 

And  little  Chrysanthemum,  watch- 
ing amid  the  flowers,  waited  and 
waited  in  vain,  until  the  faithful  Fusi 
drew  her  away  to  bed. 

Once  again,  in  the  morning,  she 
made  appeal.  Miss  Langley  and 
others  were  already  in  their  rickshaws 
as  her  chair  came  up.  Only  Redmond 
was  waiting,  suitcase  in  hand,  for  his 
boy. 

1 '  You  did  not  come, ' '  she  said  plead- 
ingly.    "Have  I  offended?" 

' '  Vance  ! ' '  Miss  Langley 's  voice  was 
cold  and  hard.  "We  are  waiting  for 
you.   Are  you  coming?" 

Silently  he  pressed  Chrysanthe- 
mum's hand.  Her  face  showed  that 
she  understood.  With  tear-blinded 
eyes  she  groped  her  way  to  her  chair, 
as  the  others  started  away.  Thru  the 
shrubbery  Sayo  watched  them  go. 
watched  Chrysanthemum  borne  back 
to  her  home,  and  with  lowering  face 
he  followed  slowly  afoot. 

But  slow  as  was  bis  progress,  he 


THE  LOVE  OF  CHRYSANTHEMUM 


39 


was  in  his  home  when  Chrysanthe- 
mum crept,  like  a  hunted  thing,  thru 
the  garden  and  into  the  house. 
Already  Fusi  had  been  told  to  go  and 
now  Sayo  faced  his  wife  sternly. 

"You  come  back  to  the  house  you 
have  disgraced  ? "  he  asked  coldly. 

"Disgraced?"  she  echoed  dully. 
"Perhaps  it  is  disgrace  to  love  another 
and  by  him  to  be  cast  away?  To 
make  my  name  a  laughing  stock  at 
the  inn!" 

Furiously  he  caught  up  a  knife 
from  the  wall  and  bent  over  the  pros- 
trate, shuddering  woman. 

Affrighted  she  shrank  from  his 
approach.  She  did  not  fear  death. 
That  she  knew  to  be  the  only  way  to 
wipe  out  the  stain,  but  Sayo  fright- 
ened her.  Never  before  had  she  seen 
him  in  anger,  and  there  was  some- 
thing more  terrible  than  death  in  this 
swift  change  from  the  impassive  man 
she  had  known.  Her  terror  seemed 
to  recall  that  coldness.  The  knife  fell 
to  the  floor  as  he  turned  away. 


"I  cannot  kill,"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"I  cannot  kill— but  go!" 

Slowly  she  crept  from  the  room, 
back  into  that  garden  where  fate  had 
come  to  her,  to  the  bench  whereon 
they  two  had  sat,  and  he  had 
filled  her  arms  with  flowers  and  had 
called  her  his  Lady  of  the  Chrysanthe- 
mums. 

His  lady!  And  now  his  caresses 
were  for  another  and  he  was  gone. 

She  pulled  a  chrysanthemum  to  her. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  that  his  hand 
had  brushed  it  as  he  had  reached  for 
those  with  which  he  had  filled  her 
arms. 

Ruthlessly  she  stripped  the  petals 
from  the  stalk,  as  he  had  stripped  her 
life  of  hope,  and  pressed  the  bare  stem 
against  her  beating  heart.  Her  hand 
touched  the  handle  of  the  knife  she 
had  caught  up  when  Sayo  dropped  it. 
One  moment  it  gleamed  in  the  moon- 
light, then,  with  a  shuddering  sigh, 
her  slim  body  crumpled  up  and  she 
lay  very  still,   her  face  pale   in   the 


THERE  FUSI  FOUND  HER  LOVED  MISTRESS  AND  FELL  SOBBING  AT  HER  FEET. 


40 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


moonlight,  while  slowly  the  obi  was 
stained  with  crimson  hue. 

There  Fusi,  stealing  from  the  house, 
found  her  loved  mistress,  and  fell  sob- 
bing at  her  feet. 


Chrysanthemum  had  loved.  Per- 
haps it  were  better  so,  but  in  the  cold 
moonlight  Fusi  sobbed  for  the  mis- 
tress she  could  not  yet  follow  across 
the  River  of  Souls. 


Notable  Bits  From   Photoplays 


SCENE  FROM  "THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  PONTIAC." 


Mike  The  Housemaid 

From  the  Scenario  of  William  H.  Kitchell 

Wherein  the  "New"  Maid  hinds  ratal  to  His        

Plans  the  Attentions  of  Policeman   Clancy              .    _ 

It  had  been  a  week  or  more  since 
Dutch  Mike  and  Light-fingered 
Pete  had  made  a  haul,  and  then  it 
had  done  little  more  than  square  ac- 
counts with  Murphy,  up  at  the  cor- 
ner, for  various  and  sundry  "growl- 
ers" that  had  been  had  on  credit,  and 
duly  recorded  on  the  accommodating 
slate. 

But  that  was  not  the  reason  Pete 


was  reading  the  "help  wanted"  ad- 
vertisements. Pete  had  read  all  the 
rest  of  the  paper,  and  had  turned  to 
these  for  want  of  better. 
"Girl  of  all  work;  one  competent  to 
take  care  of  the  silver,"  he  read. 
' '  Gee,  Mike  !  I  wish  it  was  a  butler. ' ' 
"The  silver  can't  be  much  good  if 
they  don't  have  a  butler,"  suggested 
Mike,  consolingly. 


CLANCY'S    ARRIVAL     INTERRUPTS    THE    TWO    THIEVES. 

41 


42 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


PETE'S    MISERY    IS    MADE    APPARENT    TO    HIS    PAL. 


"A  sugar  bowl  and  six  plated  spoons 
would  look  like  a  chest  of  silver  just 
now,"  declared  Pete,  plaintively. 
''Look  here,  what's  the  matter  with 
you  getting  the  job?  You've  got  the 
things  you  used  on  that  last  lay." 
"Sure  thing,"  assented  Mike.  "That 
won't  take  long!  Excuse  me  a  min- 
ute and  I'll  send  my  sister." 

It  required  but  a  few  minutes  for 
Mike  to  transform  himself  into  a  de- 
cidedly personable  servant  girl,  and 
an  hour  later  Mrs.  Carrington  was 
explaining  to  him  the  duties  expected 
of  her  maid.  Mike  noted  with  satis- 
faction that  the  silver  was  better  than 
he  had  dared  hope,  and  his  report  to 
Pete  was  more  than  satisfactory. 

But  Mike  narrowly  escaped  detec- 
tion, the  first  evening,  for  slipping 
out  of  the  back  gate  for  a  quiet  smoke, 
he  was  very  nearly  caught  by  Officer 
Clancy.  Mike  quickly  hid  the  ciga- 
rette, and  his  nervousness  was  as- 
cribed bv  Clancy  to  the  dawn  of  love. 
He  liked  to  consider  himself  a  "lady 


killer,"  and  he  knew  by  experience 
with  departed  maids  that  the  Car- 
rington larder  was  kept  well  stocked, 
and  that  Carrington  himself  was  a 
good  judge  of  whiskey,  and  did  not 
keep  too  close  an  eye  upon  the  de- 
canter. 

It  was  only  natural  that  Mike 
should  dislike  policemen,  and  when 
the  gallant  officer  began  his  love- 
making,  Mike  longed  to  introduce  his 
fist  to  Clancy's  jaw;  but  he  coaxed 
Clancy  along  and  took  satisfaction  in 
fooling  one  of  his  sworn  enemies. 

The  chance  to  "take  care  of  the 
silver,"  according  to  the  ideas  of  Mike 
and  Pete,  soon  came,  and  the  Carring- 
tons  were  not  fairly  out  of  the  house 
before  Pete  slipped  into  the  hall,  and, 
after  supplying  Mike's  demand  for  a 
cigarette,  began  to  pack  the  loot  into 
his  bag. 

But  they  had  not  counted  on 
Clancy,  who  had  also  noted  the  de- 
parture of  the  Carringtons.  The  task 
was  not  fairly  begun  before  his  club 


MIKE  TEE  HOUSEMAID 


43 


beat  a  lively  tattoo  upon  the  back 
gate,  startling  Mike  and  sending 
Pete  into  a  panic  of  fear. 

Dashing  into  the  front  hall  and  up 
the  stairs,  he  found  a  safe  conceal- 
ment in  the  curtained  shower  bath, 
and  Mike  made  everything  safe  by 
tying  the  cord  securely  about  the  rub- 
ber cloth;  then,  with  fair  composure, 
he  went  to  admit  Clancy. 
"Sure  it's  a  bite  and  a  wee  drink 
yer  have  for  yer  Clancy,"  he  coaxed, 
as  he  followed  Mike  into  the  kitchen; 
4 'an'  since  the  folks  are  away,  it's 
in  the  dining  room  we  '11  eat  in  proper 
style." 

He  led  the  way  as  he  spoke,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  Mike  to  do  but 
meekly  follow,  tho  at  every  step  he 
mentally  devised  fresh  torments  to 
which  he  consigned  the  policeman. 

A  cake  and  the  decanter  satisfied 
Clancy,  tho  now  and  then  he  varied 
the  fare  by  cracking  nuts  on  the  ma- 
hogany table  with  the  butt  of  his  re- 
volver, and,  with  every  stroke  of  the 


weapon,  Mike  more  and  more  wished 
that  it  was  the  Clancy  skull  that  was 
being  cracked. 

With  the  quieting  of  the  house, 
Pete  stirred  to  activity.  Now,  it  so 
happened  that  in  tying  up  the  rubber 
cloth  in  which  Pete  was  concealed, 
Mike  had  tied  Pete's  hands  to  his 
side ;  and,  in  his  endeavors  to  free 
himself,  Pete  accidentally  turned  on 
the  cold  water  of  the  shower  bath, 
and  the  chill  flood  descended.  Soon 
the  tub  was  full  to  overflowing,  and 
the  icy  stream  flowed  upon  the  floor. 
The  door  fitted  too  tightly  to  permit 
a  free  passage  of  the  water,  and  soon 
the  bathroom  was  afloat. 

Pete  writhed  and  struggled,  now 
cursing,  now  coughing,  but  never 
ceasing  his  efforts  to  free  himself. 
The  water  soaked  thru  the  tiles, 
and  the  steady  drip-drip  of  water  on 
the  table  below  soon  attracted 
Clancy's  attention  to  the  trouble 
above. 
"Sure,  the  water  do  be  comin'  from 


THE    CARRINGTONS    ARE    ASTONISHED    AT    THE    INDOOR    SHOWER. 


44 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


th'  bathroom,  Nora,  darlin',"  he 
murmured.  "I'll  be  after  runnin'  up 
and  shuttin'  it  off." 

"Ill  go,"  Mike  interrupted.  "It 
will  need  mopping  up." 

"I'll  come  and  help,"  volunteered 
Clancy.  "It's  not  Pat  Clancy  who'll 
let  them  little  hands  do  all  th'  hard 
work. ' ' 

"You'll  not,"  declared  Mike,  thrust- 
ing him  back  into  the  seat  with  un- 
necessary force.  "I'll  have  no  man 
messing  things  up.  You  stay  here 
and  finish  the  decanter." 

"I'll  come,"  insisted  the  stubborn 
Clancy.  "  I  '11  follow  me  darlin '  Nora 
to  th'  ends  av  th'  earth." 

"You'll  not,"  said  Mike,  wondering 
what  could  have  happened  to  Pete. 
I'll  go  and  you'll  stay  right  here." 

"I'll  do  no  such What's  that?" 

Mike  shared  Clancy's  dismay.  It 
was  the  master  and  mistress  unex- 
pectedly returned,  and  there  was  Pete 
tied  up  in  the  shower  bath! 

"You  get  out  the  back  way  before 
they  see  you  and  report  you  to  the 
Captain,"  ordered  Mike,  as  he  started 
on  a  run  for  the  second  floor. 

Clancy  was  too  startled  to  follow 


~£ 

gi*j 

IkJ 

14  « 

' 

&  ^ 

Low 

-     - 

lb  Jk 

1 

m 

1 

. 

MIKE    IS    DISCOVERED. 


the  advice,  and  he  blindly  pursued 
Mike  up  the  stairs.  To  throw  him  off, 
Mike  bolted  into  a  bedroom,  but 
Clancy  was  too  close  to  be  shaken, 
and  he  thrust  his  way  into  the  room 
in  spite  of  Mike's  endeavors. 

' '  Hide  me, ' '  he  cried  hoarsely.  l '  The 
Sarge  told  me  last  time  that  I'd  be 
broken  th'  next  time  they  found  me 
off  post." 

In  his  desperation  he  threw  his 
arm  about  Mike's  neck  in  eloquent 
appeal,  and  his  red  thatch-like  hair 
nearly  rose  erect,  while  Mike's  glossy 
wig  slipped  from  his  head  and  hung 
heavy  in  Clancy's  hand. 

"Ha!  '  Dutch  Mike!'"  gasped 
Clancy.  "It's  you,  is  it,  up  to  your 
tricks  again?" 

Mike 's  only  answer  was  to  bolt  from 
the  room  and  into  the  bathroom,  where 
Pete  had  just  succeeded  in  freeing 
himself.  At  the  sight  of  Clancy  he 
sought  to  climb  thru  the  window,  but 
it  was  too  small,  or  Pete  was  too 
large,  and  the  bedraggled  burglar  was 
yanked  back  into  the  room  only  to 
splash  again  into  the  tub. 

There  is  no  use  in  fighting  the  po- 
lice. It  only  means  a  clubbing,  and 
Mike  and  Pete,  realizing  that  the 
game  was  up,  consented  to  go  quietly, 
and  Clancy  proudly  led  them  down 
the  stairs.  He  had  counted  on  help 
from  Carrington,  but  there  was  more 
than  that,  for  the  disorder  in  the 
dining  room,  the  water  dripping  from 
the  ceiling  and  the  noise  upstairs  had 
sent  Carrington  to  the  'phone  to  call 
the  police,  and  the  reserves  were 
there  to  observe  Clancy's  triumph. 

"I  saw  that  there  was  something 
up,"  explained  Clancy,  with  a  warn- 
ing look  at  Mike.  "Th'  back  door 
was  open  and  in  I  came.  'Twas  a 
desp'rit  fight,  and  I  lost  me  gun,  but 
I  bagged   'em,  Sarge." 

With  proper  escort  the  twain  were 
marched  off  to  the  station  house, 
while  Clancy  lingered  to  permit 
Carrington  to  slip  a  note  into  the 
hand  thrust  ostentatiously  behind  his 
back. 

' '  Sure  it  was  a  lucky  escape, ' '  mused 


MIKE  THE  HOUSEMAID 


45 


Clancy,  as  he  trudged  toward  the  sta- 
tion, "an'  them  fellers  won't  tell; 
but  it's  a  pity  Nora  is  Mike  or  Mike 
wasn't  Nora.    Sure  she — I  mean  he — 


was  a  fine  figure  of  a  gurl.  It  was 
Mrs.  Clancy  it  was  after  making  her 
I  was — and  she — I  mean  he — is  Dutch 
Mike  ! — a  curse  on  the  pair  of  'em. ' ' 


CLANCY   PLAYS  A   CLUB  AGAINST  A  PAIR   OF  KNAVES  AND   TAKES   THE  TRICK. 


Arthur  Hotalling  dates  his  picture 
career  back  to  the  first  machines.  He 
had  charge  of  the  first  exhibition  of 
motion  pictures  which  was  given  at 
Atlantic  City  some  sixteen  years 
ago. 

One  of  the  star  pictures  of  that  day 
was  one  of  John  C.  Rice  and  Miss  May 
Irwin,  in  their  famous  kissing  scene 
from  The  Widow  Jones. 

After  the  performance  one  evening 
a  woman  approached  the  manager 
with  the  request  that  her  card  be  sent 
back  to  Miss  Irwin.     Mr.   Hotalling 


explained  that  the  actress  was  in  New 
York. 

"I  know  better,"  was  the  indignant 
response.  "I  have  known  her  for 
years  and  I  saw  her  on  the  stage  just 
a  moment  ago.  Please  take  my  card 
or  when  I  do  see  Miss  Irwin  at  her 
hotel  I  shall  report  your  refusal." 

Vainly  he  tried  to  explain  that  the 
photographs  had  been  made  in  New 
York,  and  that  only  the  pictured  pre- 
sentment was  shown,  but  she  would 
not  have  it  so,  and  the  following  morn- 
ing's mail  brought  a  note  for  Miss  Ir- 
win that  fairly  sizzled  with  wrath. 


JUDGE  WILLIS  BROWN,  THE  CREATOR  OF  THE  CITY  OF  BOYS  AT  CHARLEVOIX,  MICH. 


The  City  of  Boys 


A  fascinating  sketch  of  the  city  founded  by  Judge  Willis  Brown 
to  make  bad  boys  into  good  citizens 


=J 


A  SCHOOL  OP  CITIZENSHIP  ! 
That  sounds  better  than  the 
reform  school,  doesn't  it?  And 
it  is  better,  for  it  is  conceded 
that  reform  schools  often  serve  to 
make  good  boys  bad  and  bad  boys 
worse,  particularly  when  they  are 
"schools  of  crime  where  the  older 
offenders  instruct  the  lesser  delin- 
quents in  the  art  of  law  breaking." 
At  Boy  City  these  same  " kiddies* ' 
are  taught  to  make  and  to  enforce 
laws — not  to  break  them.  They  are 
taught  all  the  duties  of  citizenship 
and  when  they  leave  Boyville  for  the 
world  outside  they  are  better  in  mind, 
body  and  morals,  for  their  residence 
within  the  charmed  limits  of  the  play 
city.  That  is  the  idea  of  Judge  Willis 
Brown,  of  the  Juvenile  Court  of  Chi- 
cago, and  Boy  City  is  famous  among 
penologists  the  world  over.  It  is  a 
manufactory  of  manhood  that  is  doing 
more  good  for  the  youth  of  Chicago 
than  can  be  realized  without  intimate 
association  with  Boy  City  and  its 
products. 

The  City  of  Boys  is  not  an  institu- 
tion of  instruction  but  of  education 
in  its  broadest  meaning;  the  educa- 
tion which  eomes  from  experience.  It 
is  a  system  of  educational  recreation. 
The  City  of  Boys  emphasizes  the  real 
elements  which  make  up  a  boy's 
desires — fun  and  opportunity  actu- 
ally to  do  things.  The  instruction  and 
discipline  which  obtains  in  a  boy's 
life  in  home,  school  and  church; 
every  activity  in  which  he  enters,  is 
under  the  direction  of  adults  who 
are  in  authority.     This  discipline  is 


necessary  and  its  purpose  is  to  grow 
a  man  of  character.  Its  fundamental 
is  that  the  growing,  boy  needs  mould- 
ing in  the  right  way  so  that  in  after 
years  when  manhood  is  the  fulfilment 
of  boyhood,  there  shall  be  fixed  habits 
of  honor  and  virtue. 

Notwithstanding  this  care  and 
instruction  given  boys,  many  of  them 
go  wrong.  Many  violate  laws  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent.  When  a  boy 
becomes  incorrigible,  disobedient,  will- 
ful; when  he  smokes  cigarettes,  stays 
out  nights,  runs  away  to  adjoining 
cities  and  often  to  far  distant  places, 
two  deductions  are  always  made.  One 
is  that  the  boy  is  naturally  bad  and 
needs  severe  punishment,  the  other  is 
that  the  boy  has  not  had  proper  con- 
trol and  instruction.  This  latter  reason 
may  well  be  responsible  for  many  of 
the  boys  of  bad  homes  and  vicious 
environment  doing  unseemly  acts,  on 
the  theory  that  they  know  no  better, 
that  they  are  but  following  the 
example  set  before  them  and  that  they 
are  misunderstood.  The  harsh  treat- 
ment given  these  boys  by  the  criminal 
courts  made  necessary  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Juvenile  Courts. 

As  a  judge  of  the  Juvenile  Court, 
Judge  Brown  found  a  great  many 
boys  of  good  homes  coming  before  it. 
These  boys  having  had  good  examples, 
loving  parents  and  religious  instruc- 
tion and  advantages  not  enjoyed  by 
the  poorer  boys,  nevertheless  com- 
mitted acts  fully  as  vicious  as  these 
so-called  unfortunate  boys.  Then 
it  was  claimed  that  these  boys 
were  simply  "naturally"  bad,  and,  in 


47 


THREE    CHARACTERISTIC     SCENES    IN    BOY    CITY. 


THE  CITY  OF  BOYS 


49 


spite  of  their  good  homes,  they  chose 
to  be  tough  and  unruly.  Out  of  these 
situations  Judge  Brown  came  to  the 
understanding  that  no  normal  boy 
desires  to  do  the  wrong  thing.  That 
all.  boys,  however  they  might  be 
instructed,  were  following  the  adult 
life  of  the  community  in  which  they 
lived.  Not  because  those  they  fol- 
lowed were  adults,  but  because  adults 
made  public  sentiment,  and  boys  were 
but  a  part  of  the  community  life,  and 
therefore  attempted  to  act  their  part. 
A  majority  of  the  boys  coming  before 
Judge  Brown  in  the  Juvenile  Court 
commenced  their  delinquent  habits  as 
they  were  made  a  part  of  society: 
First,  the  gang  of  boys  with  a  leader, 
then  the  larger  group,  until,  uncon- 
sciously the  boys  were  doing  things 
contrary  to  the  desire  of  parents  and 
teachers,  but  in  harmony  with  the 
accepted  policies  and  sentiment  of  the 
boyhood  of  the  community,  the  Boy 
City  in  the  regular  city  in  which  they 
lived. 

The  purpose  was  to  organize  the 
boys  of  a  community  into  a  regular 
Boy  City,  where  they  could  be  recog- 
nized as  a  real  part  of  the  city  life, 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  men; 
where  it  was  recognized  that  boys  had 
certain  rights  as  well  as  responsi- 
bilities, and  therefore  it  is  deemed  not 
fair  to  measure  the  acts  of  any  boy, 
whether  those  acts  be  good  or  bad,  by 
the  standard  with  which  we  measure 
the  acts  of  men.  In  this  plan  there 
is  still  the  unconscious  influence  of  the 
adult  community  and  in  the  working 
out  of  the  City  of  Boys  to  its  real 
success,  a  National  City  of  Boys  at 
Charlevoix,  Mich.,  was  established  by 
Judge  Brown.  It  comprises  100 
acres,  where,  every  summer,  boys  live 
in  a  real  City  of  Boys.  No  adults 
other  than  those  who  accompany 
groups  of  boys  to  live  in  the  city. 

This  "City  of  Boys"  idea  says  to 
every  boy : ' '  You  know  what  is  square. 
You  have  been  taught  by  mother  and 
father,  you  know  what  is  their  desire 
for  you  to  do.  You  know  what 
religious  belief  they  wish  you  to  follow 
and  you  know  what  is  right  for  you 
to    do.      In   the    Public    School    you 


understand  the  purpose  of  study  and 
instruction.  Now  we  give  you  an 
opportunity  to  carry  out  all  you  know 
in  a  city  of  your  own  where  no  man 
or  woman  rules.  Run  your  own  busi- 
ness. Have  your  bank,  conduct  your 
daily  paper,  eat  when  you  want  and 
sleep  when  you  desire.  Do  whatever 
you  please,  enter  politics  or  business, 
play  all  the  time  if  you  can  afford  it, 
or  work,  but  do  everything  on  the 
square. ' ' 

The  City  of  Boys  is  not  a  reforma- 
tory or  a  scheme  of  moral  instruction. 
If  a  boy  cannot  play  square  he  is  sent 
home,  and  denied  citizenship,  not  by 
adults,  but  by  the  boys  themselves.  A 
cheat,  in  any-  way,  loses  his  citizen- 
ship. The  City  is  for  clean  boys,  who 
must  meet  responsibilities,  who  must 
meet  temptations,  who  must  assume 
responsibilities,  who  must  grow  into 
citizenship,  and  it  is  a  place  where  he 
can  test  himself,  where  he  can  apply 
the  instruction  and  example  he  has 
received  and  where  he  can  find  him- 
self at  a  period  of  life  where  habits 
are  not  fixed  and  where  changes  can 
be  made  without  the  overturning  cf  a 
whole  life  as  is  the  case  with  men.  It 
is  a  federation  of  groups  of  boys  from 
various  cities  of  the  country  who  camp 
for  the  summer  in  one  place.  Each 
camp  becomes  a  city  ward,  with  its 
coun oilmen,  who  thus  become  a  part 
of  the  city  administration.  It  is  pre- 
ventive work,  and  educational  to  the 
highest  degree. 

On  the  fun  side,  which  largely  con- 
trols a  boy,  the  fun  is  at  its  extreme 
tension  here.  The  things  a  boy  enters 
on  the  fun  side  are  real.  The  circus 
is  a  real  circus,  with  real  people  pay- 
ing real  money  to  witness  the  mar- 
velous feats  of  the  show.  Their  games 
are  under  the  direction  of  experts,  and 
they  have  their  National  League  play- 
ing by  wards.  This  City  of  Boys  is  a 
living  illustration  to  the  boy  of  all  the 
fun  he  ever  dreamed  of  having,  and 
the  biggest  fun  any  boy  can  have, 
because  there  is  eliminated  entirely 
the  undesirable  methods  attending  so 
much  of  the  so-called  fun  boys  have 
in  the  adult-city  life,  which  fun  makes 
necessary    the    juvenile    court. 


Mr.  Charles  Kent 

Charles  Kent  is  an 
actor  of  international 
reputation,  and  he  has 
lately  acquired  a  repu- 
tation equally  great  in 
the  moving  picture 
world,  not  only  as  a 
picture  player,  but  as  a 
director,  for  he  has  also 
staged  a  number  of 
elaborate  picture  plays, 
notably    "Lancelot    and 


tures  of  Mr.  Kent 
will  doubtless  be 
recognized  with 
pleasure  by  thou- 
sands of  readers, 
for  he  has  become 
a  favorite, 


Perhaps  no  more  fitting  illustra- 
tion of  the  vivification  of  history 
may  be  found  than  in  the  pic- 
ture story  of  Thomas  a  Becket.  If 
some  liberties  have  been  taken  with 
the  test  they  are  slight,  and  do  not 
interfere  with  the  main  facts,  while 
they  add  dramatic  value. 

The  opening  picture  shows  King 
Henry  II  playing  at  chess  with  his 
favorite  courtier,  his  Chancellor, 
Thomas  a  Becket.  Rosamond,  the 
king 's  mistress,  stands  beside  the  mon- 
arch,   her    arm    carelessly    about   his 


shoulders,  a  tableau  that  shows  imme- 
diately the  status  of  the  group. 

Becket,  assured  of  the  good  graces 
of  his  king,  allows  himself  to  win  the 
game,  and  with  an  angry  gesture, 
Henry  overthrows  the  table  with  its 
kings  and  queens,  its  knights,  bishops 
and  pawns — an  action  significant  of 
the  tragedy  that  is  to  come. 

A  messenger  is  announced,  and  he 
enters  with  a  letter  announcing  the 
death  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, and  presents  the  king  with  the 
cross  that  is  the  emblem  of  that  holy 


THE   KING   AND   HIS   CHANCELLOR   PLAY    AT   CHESS. 

51 


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TEE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE 


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KING    HENRY    JEERS    AT    BECKET'S    PENANCE. 


office.  The  Archbishopric  is  at  the 
disposal  of  the  king. 

For  a  moment  Henry  pauses.  He  is 
not  at  peace  with  the  clergy.  To  them 
the  Pope  is  higher  than  the  King.  His 
glance  falls  npon  Becket.  Here  is  the 
sort  of  Archbishop  that  he  needs,  a 
conrtier  ready  to  do  the  bidding  of 
his  king,  a  man  of  adroit  address,  of 
vast  wealth,  of  worldly  knowledge  and 
desires. 

The  king  is  not  without  a  sardonic 
sense  of  humor.  He  will  make  his 
Chancellor  an  archbishop. 

Aghast  at  the  honor  thrust  upon 
him,  Becket  would  refuse  the  office, 
but  the  insistence  of  the  king  is  not 
to  be  denied.  Slowly  Becket  kneels, 
and  about  his  neck  is  thrown  the  chain 
which  supports  the  cross.  The  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  is  no  longer 
dead,  but  now  he  is  called  Thomas 
instead  of  Theobald. 

The  second  scene  establishes  in  a 
few  fleeting  feet  of  film  the  character 
of  the  man  far  better  than  it  could 


be  done  in  pages  of  character  draw- 
ing. 

The  son  of  a  Saracen  mother,  con- 
verted to  Christianity,  thru  love  for 
Gilbert  a  Becket,  a  London  merchant 
made  a  prisoner  and  a  slave  while  on 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  Becket 
at  heart  was  a  deeply  religious  man, 
tho  the  calling  of  his  conscience  had 
been  stilled  by  his  life  at  court  and 
by  kingly  favor.  His  embassy  to 
France,  when  the  magnificence  of  his 
retinue  moved  the  French  to  wonder- 
ment, had  still  further  contributed  to 
the  carelessness  of  his  conduct,  but 
his  elevation  to  the  Archbishopric 
deeply  moved  him,  and  we  see  him  in 
his  chamber  of  his  palace  seeking  to 
convince  himself  that  the  appoint- 
ment was  ordained  of  God  and  not 
merely  the  jest  of  his  royal  master. 

In  a  vision  he  perceives  an  angel 
of  the  Lord;  and,  in  answer  to  his 
eager  questioning,  he  is  assured  that 
indeed  he  is  the  chosen  of  the  Al- 
mighty, and  with  his  eyes  upon  the 


J 


FATHER   GERALD   DENOUNCES    THE    KING'S    LOVE    FOR    ROSAMOND. 


'THE    CHURCH    ALONE    HATH    TOWER    TO    PUNISH    HER    TRIESTS. 


54 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


FRAMING    THE    FAMOUS    CONSTITUTION    OF    CLARENDON. 


cross,  he  consecrates  himself  to  the 
work. 

He  next  is  seen  in  the  oratory  of 
the  palace  at  Canterbury.  In  peni- 
tence for  his  sins  he  humbly  bares  his 
back,  and  while  he  prays  for  forgive- 
ness, his  priestly  attendants  lash  his 
shoulders  with  knotted  ropes. 

There  Henry  finds  him  and  for  a 
moment  hugely  enjoys  the  scene.  The 
thought  of  Becket,  the  pleasure  loving 
Chancellor,  the  man  whose  wealth  and 
power  were  second  only  to  that  of  his 
king,  baring  his  shoulders  to  the 
thongs  of  his  monks  and  priests,  is  a 
delightful  bit  of  humor — something 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  royal  jest 
that  turned  from  court  to  church  the 
gayest  spirit  of  them  all. 

With  deft  touch  he  mirthfully  imi- 
tates Becket 's  sighs  and  groans,  elicit- 
ing from  the  attending  courtiers  a 
responsive  laugh;  for,  like  their  mas- 
ter they  assume  that  Becket 's  attitude 
is  but  a  pose. 

But  the  sincerity  of  the  man  is  not 
to  be  denied.  With  simple  dignity  and 


impassioned  eloquence  he  urges  Henry 
to  turn  from  the  evil  of  his  ways.  One 
by  one  the  courtiers  slink  away,  until 
only  Henry  is  left  to  face  the  telling 
reproaches.  At  last,  he  too,  bows  be- 
fore the  passionate  plea,  and,  with  a 
laugh  that  carries  no  mirth,  he  leaves 
the  chapel. 

Henry 's  mercurial  temperament 
soon  shook  off  the  effect  of  Becket 's 
words  and  the  gay  court  found  no 
change.  Rosamond,  more  favored  than 
Queen  Eleanor,  carried  things  with  so 
high  a  hand  as  to  stir  the  whispers  of 
the  subjects,  and  the  King's  confessor, 
Father  Gerald,  pleads  with  •  him  to 
give  up  the  favorite.  In  a  paroxysm 
of  rage  Henry  orders  him  from  the 
room  and  Gerald  hurries  away.  But 
dismissal,  will  not  suffice.  Men-at-arms 
are  dispatched  after  him  with  orders 
to  behead  him,  and  he,  himself  fol- 
lows fast  to  see  the  decree  carried 
out. 

And  so  they  come  to  the  Palace  of 
Canterbury  where  Gerald  has  found 
sanctuary.  In  vain  does  the  king  de- 


THOMAS  a  BECKET 


55 


mand  that  Gerald  be  turned  over  to 
justice  because  of  his  insult  to  his 
monarch.  The  Church  claims  power 
over  her  priests,  and  Becket  will  not 
listen  to  the  demands.  By  the  sheer 
power  of  personality  he  stands  defiant 
before  the  king,  and  the  king  and 
courtiers,  for  a  second  time,  make  a 
retreat. 

But  the  hot-headed  monarch  is  not 
to  be  bearded  by  a  priest.  Becket  is 
summoned  to  Clarendon,  where  the 
Barons  are  met  in  council,  and  where 
they  have  framed  the  Constitution  of 
Clarendon.  And  one  of  the  first 
clauses  of  that  constitution  decrees 
that  the  priests  shall  be  answerable  to 
the  courts  of  law  and  not  to  their 
bishops  for  their  transgressions. 

Here,  surely,  has  been  found  the 
means  of  breaking  the  proud  spirit  of 
the  courtier-priest,  but  Becket  regards 
with  contempt  the  demands  of  the 
Barons,  and  with  equal  indifference 
he  faces  their  flashing  swords,  when 
they  storm  into  the  hall  to  demand  of 


him  the  reasons  for  his  insolence.  With 
calm  mein  he  raises  his  cross  of  office, 
and  they  retire  abashed. 

The  defiance  of  the  man  whom  he 
has  raised  to  power  maddens  Henry 
and  with  furious  cries  he  utters  the 
historical  lament: 

"What  a  parcel  of  fools  and  das- 
tards have  I  nourished  in  my  house 
that  none  can  be  found  to  avenge  me 
on  one  upstart  priest?" 

Four  of  his  knights  took  heed  of 
his  cry.  They  were  Reginald  Fitzurse, 
William  Tracy,  Hugh  de  Morville  and 
Richard  Brito.  Three  of  these  had 
been  attendants  upon  Becket  when  he 
was  Chancellor ;  had  eaten  of  his  bread 
and  enjoyed  his  bounty.  Now  Becket 
had  become  an  ''upstart  priest"  of 
whom  the  king  would  be  rid,  and  they 
rode  to  do  his  bidding,  forgetful  of 
the  debt  they  owed  their  former  mas- 
ter. Their  allegiance  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  king. 

Rapidly  they  rode  to  Canterbury, 
and  there,  amid  his  frightened  priests, 


THE  TEMPORAL  BOWS  BP^ORE   THE   SPIRITUAL  POWER. 


56 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


they  found  the  man  they  sought.  Ap- 
prised of  their  approach  Becket  had 
sought  one  of  the  chapels  of  the  Cath- 
edral and,  still  defiant  of  his  king, 
and  still  loyal  to  his  Church,  Becket 
bravely  met  the  fate  that  made  him 
a  martyr  to  his  cause. 

The  last  scene  shows  Henry  receiv- 


ing the  news  of  Becket 's  death,  and, 
almost  on  the  instant,  the  dispatches 
announce  the  failure  of  his  arms  in 
France  and  Scotland.  In  a  vision  the 
saintly  face  of  Becket  is  seen,  his  hand 
raised  in  the  apostolic  benediction,  as 
the  king  cowers  before  him,  torn  by 
his  awakened  conscience. 


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THE  DEATH  OF  BECKET  BEFORE  THE  ALTAR  OF  ST,  BENNET. 


The  World  Before  Your  Eyes 


By  Prof.  Frederick  Starr,  of  Chicago  University 


I  have  seen  Niagara  thunder  over 
her  gorge  in  the  noblest  frenzy 
ever  beheld  by  man — I  have 
watched  a  Queensland  river  under 
the  white  light  of  an  Australasian 
moon  go  whirling  and  swirling  thru 
strange  islands  lurking  with  bandicoot 
and  kangaroo — I  have  watched  an 
English  railroad  train  draw  into  a 
station,  take  on  its  passengers  and 
then  chug  away  with  its  stubby  little 
engine  thru  the  Yorkshire  Dells, 
past  old  Norman  Abbeys  silhouetted 
against  the  skyline,  while  a  cluster  of 
century-aged  cottages  loomed  up  in 
the  valley  below,  thru  which  a  yokel 
drove  his  flocks  of  Southdowns — T 
have  been  to  the  Orient  and  gazed 
at  the  water-sellers  and  beggars  and 
dervishes — I  have  beheld  fat  old 
Rajahs  with  the  price  of  a  thousand 
lives  bejeweled  in  their  monster  tur- 
bans, and  the  price  of  a  thousand 
deaths  sewn  in  their  royal  nightshirts 
as  they  indolently  swayed  in  golden 
howdahs,  borne  upon  the  backs  of 
grunting  elephants — I  saw  a  runaway 
horse  play  battledoor  and  shuttlecock 
with  the  citizens  and  traffic  of  a  little 
Italian  village,  whose  streets  had  not 
known  so  much  commotion  since  the 
sailing  of  Columbus — I  know  how  the 
Chinaman  lives  and  I  have  been  thru 
the  homes  of  the  Japanese — I  have 
marveled  at  the  daring  of  Alpine  to- 
bogganists  and  admired  the  wonder- 
ful skill  of  Norwegian  ski  jumpers — 
I  have  seen  armies  upon  the  battle- 
field and  their  return  in  triumph — I 
have  looked  upon  weird  dances  and 
outlandish  frolics  in  every  quarter 
of  the  globe,  and  I  didn  't  have  to  leave 
Chicago  for  a  moment. 

No  books  have  taught  me  all  these 


wonderful  things — no  lecturer  has  pic- 
tured them — I  simply  dropped  into  a 
moving  picture  theatre  at  various  mo- 
ments of  leisure,  and  at  the  total  cost 
for  all  the  visits  of  perhaps  two  per- 
formances of  a  foolish  musical  show,  I 
have  learned  more  than  a  traveler 
could  see  at  the  cost  of  thousands  of 
dollars  and  years  of  journey. 

Neither  you  nor  I  fully  realize  what 
the  moving  picture  has  meant  to  us, 
and  what  it  is  going  to  mean.  As 
children  we  used  to  dream  of  a  jour- 
ney on  a  magician's  carpet  to  the 
legendary  lands,  but  we  can  rub  our 
own  eyes  now  and  witness  more  tre- 
mendous miracles  than  Aladdin  could 
have  by  rubbing  his  fairy  lamp.  But 
we  're  so  matter-of-fact  that  ,we  never 
think  of  it  that  way.  We  're  living  at 
a  mile-a-second  gait  in  the  swiftest 
epoch  of  the  world's  progress — in  the 
age  of  incredibilities  come  true.  "We 
fly  thru  the  air — chat  with  our  friends 
in  Paris  by  squirting  a  little  spark 
from  a  pole  on  one  shore  of  the  At- 
lantic to  another  pole  on  the  other  side, 
and  so  we  take  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  which  our  great-grandfathers 
would  have  declared  a  miracle. 

The  moving  picture  is  making  for 
us  volumes  of  history  and  action — 
it  is  not  only  the  greatest  impulse  of 
entertainment  but  the  mightiest  force 
of  instruction.  We  do  not  'analyze 
the  fact  that  when  we  read  of  an 
English  wreck  we  at  once  see  an  Eng- 
lish train  before  us,  or  when  we  learn 
of  a  battle  that  an  altogether  different 
panorama  is  visualized  than  our  for- 
mer erroneous  impression  of  a  hand- 
to-hand  conflict — we  are  familiar  with 
the  geography  of  Europe — we  are  well 
acquainted  with  how  the  Frenc' 


57 


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THE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


( 


dresses,  in  what  sort  of  a  home  he 
lives,  and  from  what  sort  of  a  shop 
he  buys  his  meat  and  greens. 

We  take  so  much  for  granted — we 
are  so  thoroly  spoiled  by  our  multiple 
luxuries — that  we  do  not  bestow  more 
than  a  passing  thought  upon  our  ad- 
vantages, because  the  moving  picture 
machine  is  an  advantage — a  tremen- 
dous, vital  force  of  culture  as  well  as 
amusement.  An  economy,  not  only  of 
money  but  of  experiences — it  brings 
the  world  to  us — it  delivers  the  uni- 
verse to  our  theatre  seat.  The  moving 
picture  is  not  a  makeshift  for  the 
playhouse — its  dignity  is  greater — its 
importance  far  beyond  the  puny  func- 
tion of  comedy  and  tragedy.  It  is  a 
clean     entertainment,     lecture     and 


amusement  all  rolled  in  one — in  its 
highest  effort  it  stands  above  litera- 
ture— in  its  less  ambitious  phase 
it  ranks  above  the  tawdry  show 
house.  It  teaches  nothing  harmful 
and  it  usually  teaches  much  that  is 
helpful. 

The  moving  picture  is  not  a  make- 
shift, but  the  highest  type  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  history  of  the  world. 
It  stands  for  a  better  Americanism 
because  it  is  attracting  millions  of  the 
masses  to  an  uplifting  institution, 
drawing  them  to  an  improving  as  well 
as  an  amusing  feature  of  city  life.  Its 
value  cannot  be  measured  now,  but 
another  generation  will  benefit  more 
largely  thru  its  influence  than  we  of 
to-day  can  possibly  realize. 


A  Dixie  Mother 


THE    CAUSE    OF    ALL    THE    TROUBLE. 
(See  Opposite  Page.) 


A  Dixie  Mother 


By  Louis  Reeve  Harrison 


A  fatal  day  near  the  end  of  the 
Civil  War  saw  General  Capel, 
desperately  wounded  and  sup- 
ported on  either  side  by  his  sons, 
seek  refuge  in  their  old  home.  The 
destructive  blast  of  battle,  which  had 
swept  that  region  and  withered  the 
face  of  nature  for  miles  around,  was 
not  spent.  A  shell  exploded  near  the 
fugitives  as  they  passed  an  uprooted 
tree,  and  an  old  family  servant  came 
forth  to  warn  them  that  they  were 
pursued  by  a  detachment  of  Union 
soldiers;  their  situation  was  almost  as 


desperate  as  their  irretrievable  for- 
tunes or  their  hopeless  cause.  Physi- 
cally ruined,  all  was  lost  save  honor. 

The  divinity  of  their  home,  a  Dixie 
mother,  was  comforting  her  frightened 
daughter  and  waiting  to  embrace  her 
husband  and  sons.  Virginia  Lewis 
Capel,  devoted  wife  and  fond  mother, 
stood  proudly  in  an  old  colonial  hall, 
whose  walls  were  hung  with  ancestral 
portraits  and  revolutionary  swords, 
waiting  and  hoping.  She  was  slight 
of  figure,  almost  as  delicate  looking  as 
her  daughter,  but  there  was  a  great 


THE     DIXIE     MOTHER    BOWED     HEE     HEAD     IN     BITTERNESS     AND     YIELDED     HER 
SWORD   AS   GRAVELY   AS   IF   SURRENDERING   AN   ARMY. 

59 


60 


THE  MOTION   PICTURE  8TORY  MAGAZINE 


THE  MOTHER  SAW  AND  UNDERSTOOD. 


heart  throbbing  in  her  bosom.  She 
came  from  more  than  one  line  of  those 
indomitable  fighters  who  conquered 
savages  at  home  and  foes  from  abroad 
for  generations.  There  was  iron  in  her 
blood. 

When  the  men  entered  the  hall, 
Mrs.  Capel's  eyes  filled  with  tender 
sympathy  for  all,  but  she  took  the 
man  of  her  heart  in  her  arms.  She 
lavished  tenderness  on  him  while  mak- 
ing him  comfortable,  then  turned  to 
her  sons  as  if  the  deep  wells  of  her 
affections  were  inexhaustible. 

To  her  eldest  son,  Fielding,  about 
to  return  to  the  field  in  spite  of  a 
serious  wound  on  his  head,  she  said 
with  deep  emotion : 

' '  Oh,  but  I  am  proud  of  you !  Go  if 
you  must.  The  splendid  Boys  in  Grey 
are  contesting  every  inch  of  ground 
and  can  not  spare  you  from  the  ranks. 
Go  and  win  gloriously!  The  battle  is 
to  the  brave,  my  son,  not  to  the 
strong. ' ' 

She  turned  to  her  youngest  child, 
Merriweather,  fresh  from  a  military 


academy,  but  he  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully, indicated  that  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  enemy  and  turned 
away  completely  disheartened. 

She  laid  her  hand  in  gentle  protest 
on  his  arm;  he  was  the  last  babe  to 
nestle  on  her  bosom,  but  he  only  sighed 
in  despair.  The  soft  light  faded  from 
her  eyes  as  she  took  a  sword  from  the 
wall,  pointed  to  the  portraits  of  her 
son's  ancestors,  and  said,  significantly: 

"Lest  we  forget!" 

1 1  They  fought  in  a  better  cause, ' '  he 
muttered. 

The  mother's  eyes  flashed  and  the 
sword  gleamed  in  her  hand. 

"Go  fight!"  she  commanded,  giving 
him  the  sword  and  drawing  him  on. 
"Fight,  my  son!  Fight  till  the  last 
drop  of  blood  in  your  body  is  shed. 
Shall  our  men  stay  at  home  when 
others  are  in  the  field?  If  you  must 
fall,  let  it  be  with  your  face  to  the 
enemy.  Die  like  a  Southern  gentle- 
man. ' ' 

Fielding  had  already  ,  gone,  deter- 
mined to  rejoin  his  regiment. 


A  DIXIE  MOTHER 


61 


Merriweather  kissed  his  mother 
fondly  and  hurried  after  his  brother. 

A  detachment  of  Union  soldiers 
under  Lieutenant  Sears  was  approach- 
ing, as  the  Capels  attempted  to  escape, 
and  a  sergeant  raised  his  gun  and 
fired. 

Merriweather  Capel,  bravely  facing 
the  detachment  with  uplifted  sword, 
clasped  his  hand  to  his  breast  and 
fell,  mortally  wounded.  He  kissed 
his  sword,  wafted  the  kiss  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  darling  mother,  closed  his 
eyes  and  died  content,  "like  a  South- 
ern gentleman. " 

The  shot  warned  those  in  the  hall 
of  impending  danger.  Mrs.  Capel 
roused  her  husband  and  managed  to 
help  him  to  a  hiding  place  behind  a 
secret  panel  door,  and  then  went  forth 
to  learn  the  fate  of  her  sons.  Field- 
ing had  escaped,  with  Lieutenant 
Sears  in  pursuit.  Merriweather  lay 
dead,  and  near  him  stood  a  Union 
sergeant  loading  his  gun. 

The  mother  saw  and  understood. 

Pale  and  tearless,  she  led  the  way 
to  the  hall,  while  the  Union  soldiers 
carried  in  Merriweather 's  body  and 
laid  it  on  the  sofa.  They  wasted  no 
time  on  sentiment.  Mothers'  sons 
were  falling  like  autumn  leaves.  The 
privates  went  to  search  the  house, 
while  the  sergeant  prodded  the  walls 
with  his  bayonet  in  quest  of  some 
secret  hiding  place. 

The  mother  watched  him  with  sullen 
hatred.  Her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
body  of  her  son  and  then  to  the 
weapons  on  the  wall. 

Suddenly  a  flame  lighted  in  her 
eyes. 

She  seized  a  sword  and  attacked  the 
sergeant  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tigress 
defending  her  cubs. 

She  was  driving  him  all  over  the 
hall,  beating  down  his  defense,  when 
Lieutenant  Sears  entered  and  parried 
her  weapon  with  his  own  sword. 

She  was  now  surrounded  by  blue- 
coats,  her  daughter  was  pleading  with 
her,  and  the  big  Lieutenant  reminded 
her  that  she  was  a  non-combatant. 

The  Dixie  mother  bowed  her  head 
in  bitterness  and  yielded  her  sword  as 
gravely  as  if  surrendering  an  army- 


corps.  She  conceded  the  force  of  his 
claim,  but  there  was  no  submission  of 
spirit.  When  her  son  Fielding  was 
brought  in,  a  prisoner  of  war,  the  little 
mother  shed  no  tears.  The  only 
betrayal  of  her  heart's  agony  came 
when  she  placed  one  hand  on  the  brow 
of  her  dead  boy,  the  other  on  the 
breast  of  the  survivor  and  said  to 
Sears: 
"God  has  taken  one.  Spare  me  the 
other!" 

The  Lieutenant  bowed  gravely  and 
assured  her  that  Fielding  should  be 
his  special  charge,  and  with  his  troops 
left  the  house. 

That  day  Sears  sought  his  sister, 
working  as  a  nurse  in  a  field  hospital, 
and  committed  Fielding  to  her  par- 
ticular care,  saying : 

' '  Blue  or  Grey,  we  are  simply  Ameri- 
can brothers  fighting  among  our- 
selves. ' ' 

When  General  Capel  came  to  view 
the  body  of  his  dead  son  and  learned 
that  the  other  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy,  his  revengeful  passion  was 
fearful  to  behold.  The  grizzled  war- 
rior raised  his  sword  hand  in  fierce 
resentment  and  his  eyes  glowed  with 
settled  hatred  as  he  exclaimed: 

"May  Almighty  God  strike  me  dead 
when  I  bow  to  that  flag ! ' ' 

The  Dixie  mother  sank  down  by  her 
dead  boy  and  murmured  : 
"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!" 

In  the  years  that  followed  the  close 
of  the  war,  the  wounds  on  nature's 
face  were  gradually  covered  by  green 
verdure,  but  the  scar  on  General 
Capel's  heart  never  healed.  His  son, 
Fielding,  had  married  the  lovely 
northern  girl,  who  had  nursed  him 
through  a  dangerous  illness,  and  had 
remained  in  the  North  to  repair  his 
fortunes.  The  brooding  General  would 
accept  no  aid  from  what  he  regarded 
as  a  traitorous  source,  and  his  gentle 
wife  asked  none.  She  bore  most  of  the 
after-burden  of  hardship  and  self- 
denial  with  the  same  mental  power  of 
endurance  that  had  inspired  her  pa- 
tient courage  under  affliction. 

One  day,  after  she  had  been  gather- 
ing flowers  for  their  meagre  table,  the 
faithful  old  servant  and  her  daughter 


62 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


came  driving  up  in  the  venerable  fam- 
ily carriage  with  precious  news.  Field- 
ing and  his  wife,  with  their  baby, 
accompanied  by  her  brother,  Lieuten- 
ant Sears,  had  come  South  for  a  fam- 
ily reunion,  and  were  lingering  near 
until  Fielding  could  be  assured  of 
their  welcome.  Fielding  sent  the 
picture  of  his  baby  and  hoped  that  his 
father  would  give  it  the  kiss  of  peace. 

The  irreconcilable  old  General 
refused. 

In  the  baby's  hand  was  an  Ameri- 
can flag. 

That  was  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 

Mrs.  Capel  followed  her  husband 
into  the  house,  trying  to  pacify  him 
and  bring  about  some  arrangement  to 
unite  the  family  after  long  separation, 
but  he  was  inexorable.  Sure  that  he 
would  eventually  consent,  Mrs.  Capel 
sent  Cuffy  for  the  cradle  in  which  she 
had  last  rocked  Merriweather.  She 
continued  to  plead  with  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  nature,  her  daughter  joined 
her  voice  to  the  supplication,  and  even 
old  Cuffy,  when  he  had  returned  with 


the  cradle,  made  a  mute  appeal,  but 
General    Capel   pointed   to    the   sofa 
where  his  son's  body  had  lain  and 
said : 
' '  Have  you  forgotten  ? ' ' 

The  Dixie  mother,  crushed  at  last, 
sank  into  a  chair  by  the  cradle. 

Her  proud  spirit  was  broken. 

The  long  restraint  she  had  placed  on 
emotions  failed  her  when  it  seemed 
that  the  light  of  woman's  life  must 
be  denied  her,  and  her  mind  went 
wandering.  She  rocked  the  cradle 
softly  and  smiled.  She  was  thinking 
of  her  own  little  babe,  but  there  was  a 
strange  expression  in  her  eyes  that 
alarmed  General  Capel.  The  divinity 
of  his  home  had  given  the  best  of 
herself  to  every  one  within  reach  of 
her  influence.  Her  reward  was  a 
denial  that  threatened  mental  disso- 
lution if  not  death. 
' '  Come, ' '  he  said  to  the  others, ' '  there 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

All  three  hurried  out,  and  the  little 
mother  was  left  alone. 

Mrs.  Capel's  smile  vanished.     She 


'MAY  GOD  ALMIGHTY   STRIKE  ME  DEAD  WHEN  I  BOW  TO  THAT  FLAG. 


A  DIXIE  MOTHER 


63 


BLUE     OR     GRAY,     WE     ARE     SIMPLY     AMERICAN     BROTHERS     FIGHTING     AMONG 

OURSELVES." 


dimly  realized  that  her  youngest  child 
was  dead.  She  rose  and  took  a  few 
flowers  from  the  table,  then  dropped 
them  one  by  one  in  the  cradle.  How 
sorrowful  to  part  with  children !  The 
earth  is  dreary  without  them.  When 
their  light  is  gone,  the  purest  charm 
of  existence  is  taken  from  us.  But  we 
can  meet  them  again.  Once  more  we 
can  look  into  the  pure  eyes  of  love 
and  discern  the  infinite  purpose. 

The  little  mother  took  a  sword  from 
the  wall  and  tried  its  point. 

She  raised  her  arms  on  high  to  ask 
pardon  for  her  deed. 

It  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  meet 
the  child  in  Heaven. 

Then  there  came  a  heaven-sent  mes- 
sage. 

Lieutenant  Sears,  the  baby  in  his 
hands,  dashed  in  at  the  door  and 
placed  the  little  messenger  from  on 
high  in  the  Dixie  mother's  arms. 

The  others  followed  and  gathered 
round  the  source  of  their  happiness. 


Now  her  heart  glowed  with  the 
warmth  of  old  days. 

Gradually,  the  intelligence  returned, 
and  when  she  realized  her  full  happi- 
ness, the  Dixie  mother  turned  to  her 
husband  and  whispered: 

"Let  us  keep  our  feelings  sacred  in 
our  hearts  and  leave  no  heritage  of 
hate  to  our  children.' ' 

General  Capel  was  no  man  of  half 
measures. 

He  took  the  baby  that  held  the  flag 
and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it  with  the 
old-time  chivalry  that  had  made  him 
the  Dixie  Mother's  best  beloved. 

It  was  a  kiss  for  peace  for  the  new 
generation. 

North  had  met  South  and  had  van- 
quished, but  his  son  had  won  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  North,  and  the  little  one, 
nestled  at  last  in  its  grandmother's 
arms,  was  promise  of  that  day  when 
sectional  prejudice  should  be  forgot- 
ten and  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  be- 
come a  memory. 


MISS    FLORENCE    E.    TURNER. 

One  of  the  picture-play  artists 
who  will  never  be  forgotten  is 
Miss  Florence  E.  Turner,  for  she 
has  won  a  permanent  place  in 
the  affections  of  the  picture  pub- 
lic. Beautiful,  graceful,  versatile, 
sympathetic,  she  adopts  her  mar- 
velous talents  equally  well  to 
every  part  assigned  to  her,  and 
she  has  taken  rank  among  the 
foremost  players  of  the  world. 
This  is  not  surprising,  however, 
when  it  is  remembered  that  she 
began  her  public  career  on  the 
stage  at  the  age  of  three. 


Love's  Awakening 


First  Love  Is  Not  Always  Best    nor 
Is    the    Race    Always    to    the    Swift 


Hiram  Graham  smiled  as  the  last 
huge  load  of  hay  rolled  into  the 
barnyard,  and  the  haymakers, 
young  men  and  women,  slid  from  atop 
the  load,  the  girls  protesting  with 
many  a  giggling  shriek  that  they 
never  could  jump,  but  suggesting 
that  it  was  very  easy  when  a  pair  of 
strong  arms  waited  to  clasp  them  as 
they  landed. 

It  was  Dave  Allen  who  was  first  off 
the  load  to  hold  out  his  arms  invit- 
ingly to  Jewel  Graham,  but  she 
paused  a  moment,  and  it  was  Jim 
Long  who  secured  the  plump  prize 
and  bore  her  away  in  triumph.  Dave 
was  only  a  farmer's  son,  while  Jim 
was  a  clerk  in  a  village  drug  store. 
He  had  been  "keeping  company " 
with  Jewel  for  several  years  and  Dave 
Allen's  more  quiet  love  making 
availed  him  nothing. 

Perhaps  it  was  those  long  summer 
days  in  the  haying  field,  when  Jim 
begged  a  week  off  to  share  the  fun, 
that  brought  matters  to  a  head,  but  it 
was  not  long  after  when  Jim  and 
Jewel  sought  Hiram  Graham  and  Jim 
asked  his  approval  of  their  engage- 
ment. 

' '  I  guess  it 's  all  right  if  Jewel  wants 
you,"  assented  the  shrewd  old  man 
with  a  kindly  smile,  "but  don't  you 
think,  Jim,  that  you  are  wasting  your 
time  here?  Doc  Tanner  told  me  the 
other  day  that  a  smart  young  fellow' 
like  you  ought  to  be  able  to  make  his 
way  in  the  city.  They  pay  better 
there,  and  I  guess  Jewel  would  rather 
wait  until  you  can  make  a  home  for 
her  in  the  city." 


"I  guess  you're  right,"  assented 
Jim,  coloring  with  pride  at  the  praise. 
' '  I  was  thinking  of  that,  and  if  Jewel 
will  wait  I'll  try." 

Hiram  nodded  and  so  it  was  decid- 
ed that  Jim  should  go  to  town.  His 
employer  recommended  him  to  a  city 
friend,  and  the  Hopkinsville  Banner 
in  stilted  praise  congratulated  the  city 
upon  such  an  important  addition  to 
its  captains  of  industry. 

But  Jim  made  good  for  the  most 
sanguine  prophecies.  He  knew  his 
business,  and  the  patrons  of  the  city 
store  took  a  liking  to  the  fresh-faced 
lad,  whose  manner  was  an  odd  blend 
of  country  freedom  and  city  elegance. 
The  young  women,  in  particular, 
found  many  more  errands  calling 
them  to  Stephan's  drug  store,  and 
Stephan  smiled  and  raised  Jim's  sal- 
ary. 

He  was  not  insensible  to  their  flat- 
tery, and  he  responded  readily  to  their 
flirtations,  even  tho  he  was  faithful  in 
thought  to  Jewel ;  but  while  the  oth- 
ers were  content  to  let  it  remain  a 
flirtation,  Violet  Ware  had  decided 
upon  a  conquest,  and  bet  a  box  of 
chocolates  with  her  chum  that  she 
would  wring  a  proposal  from  Jim 
within  three  months. 

Violet  was  a  leader  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  her  very  evident  preference 
flattered  Jim;  but  while  he  felt  him- 
self bound  to  Jewel,  his  resistance  was 
breaking  fast. 

Stephan  was  willing  to  give  him  a 
few  days  off,  and  he  wired  Jewel  that 
he  would  arrive  on  the  evening  train 
the  following  day.    He  felt  that  could 


65 


66 


THE    MOTION    PICTURE   STORY    MAGAZINE 


JEWEL'S    FATHER    SENDS    JIM    TO   THE    CITY   TO    WIN   HIS    WAY. 


he  see  her  again  he  would  forget 
Violet's  fascinations,  but  Violet  was 
not  to  be  denied. 

"Tomorrow's  your  night  off,  isn't 
it?"  she  demanded,  as  she  perched 
herself  on  one  of  the  high  stools  be- 
fore the  soda  fountain.  "We  are  going 
to  have  some  people  in  to  play  euchre. 
Now  don't  say  no.  You  simply  must 
come." 

Jim's  face  clouded.  "I'm  sorry,"  he 
began  slowly,  ' '  but  I  am  going  to  take 


a  vacation  and  go  home  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"To  see  your  sweetheart?"  demand- 
ed Violet  jealously.  "I  know  that  is 
what  it  is.  And  you'll  leave  me  in  the 
lurch,  Jim,  when  I  had  counted  on 
you?  I  made  it  Thursday  because  I 
knew  that  was  your  evening  off.    If 

you  don't  stay  I'll " 

She  did  not  complete  the  sentence, 
but  her  eyes  were  eloquent  of  threat, 
and  of  promise  as  well.    Jim  was  weak 


LOVE'S  AWAKENING 


67 


and  before  she  had  left  it  meant  an- 
other wire  to  Jewel  calling  off  his 
visit.  He  felt  like  a  coward,  but  Vio- 
let was  near  and  Jewel  seemed  very 
far  off. 

There  was  wire  trouble  and  it  was 
not  until  Jewel,  stealing  from  home, 
had  eagerly  paced  the  station  plat- 
form, that  the  telegram  was  given  her. 
Dave  Allen  saw  the  droop  of  her 
shoulders  and  hurried  to  her  side. 
"Bad  news,  Jewel?"  he  asked  with 
sympathy.  "Don't  break  down,  little 
girl;  don't  break  down." 
"I'm  not  going  to,"  she  declared  be- 
tween sobs,  "but  Jim  promised  to 
come  and  then  he  telegraphed  that  he 
couldn't." 

"  Perhaps  he  couldn't,"  urged  Dave, 
generous  to  his  rival,  but  Jewel  shook 
her  head. 

"We  were  going  to  be  married.  He 
could  come  if  he  wanted  to.  It's  some 
girl." 

As  Jewel  turned  toward 'home,  the 
tears  would  not  keep  back.  Dave  took 
her  in  his  buggy,  and  with  his  strong 
arm  about  her,  he  offered  consolation 
that  he  sought  to  make  brotherly,  but 
which  none  the  less  had  a  touch  of 
his  hopeless  love  in  it,  and  Jewel 
found  it  very  comforting. 

He  came  again  in  the  morning  and 
together  they  sat  upon  the  porch. 
Hiram,  seeing  them,  smiled  to  him- 
self, for  Dave  always  had  been  his 
favorite. 

The  rural  delivery  driver  came 
down  the  road  in  his  rattling  buggy 


and  dropped  a  letter  in  the  Graham 
box.  Jewel  ran  to  get  it. 

"It's  from  Jim,"  she  announced, 
with  flashing  eyes,  as  she  perched  her- 
self up  on  the  top  step  to  read  it. 

It  was  a  long  letter  and  between  the 
lines  Jewel  could  read  many  things, 
for  Jim  had  written  it  late  the  night 
before  when  he  wras  still  smarting 
under  the  thought  of  Violet's  answer 
to  his  proposal, — "Why  I  didn't  know 
you  cared  for  me  that  way,  Jim.  I'm 
so  sorry." 

It  was  a  plea  that  had  worked  be- 
fore, but  Jim  knew  that  he  had  been 
tricked,  and  in  his  eagerness  to  get 
back  what  he  had  lost  he  said  too 
much. 

With  flaming  cheeks  Jewel  folded 
the  letter  and  tucked  it  into  her 
pocket.  Dave  rose  awkwardly  from 
the  steps. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  be  getting  along," 
he  said  slowly,  feeling  that  he  was  in 
the  way. 

"Must  you?"  asked  Jewel  in  a  voice 
that  she  tried  to  make  careless  but 
which  told  it's  tale." 

• '  I  don 't  have  to  until  you  send  me, ' ' 
he  announced,  as  he  took  his  seat  be- 
side her.  "Will  I  ever  have  to, 
Jewel?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to,  Dave,"  she 
said  with  a  blush,  and  her  father, 
coming  suddenly  upon  them,  smiled 
and  gave  his  blessing.  He  had  always 
had  faith  that  his  little  girl  would 
find  true  love  some  dav.  And  she 
had. 


J 


w»^ 


HER    GRAN'PERE    WAS    A    BIG    CHIEF." 


The  Perversity  of  Fate 


From  the  Picture  Play  by  Taylor  White 


In  which  the  reader  is  taken  from  the  city  streets  to 
the  Canadian  wilds,  and  is  once  more  shown  that  Fate 
is  a  fickle  jade  who  disarranges  even  the  best  laid  plans 


'k 


"  A  nd  you  'll  wait,  dear — even  tho 
/\  the  time  seems  long?" 
1  %  Marion  Marlow  glanced  at  the 
thin  gold  circlet  that  was  the  sole 
ornament  of  her  slim,  capable  fingers. 
It  was  characteristic  of  John  Rose 
that  he  should  ask  Marion  to  marry 
him,  even  while  confessing  that  he 
could  not  afford  a  diamond  ring  as 
the  pledge  of  his  troth. 

"I'll  wait,"  she  promised,  with  a 
little  shudder  that  caused  her  to 
nestle  more  closely  against  the  power- 
fully muscled  shoulder,  "but  Quebec 
is  such  a  long  way  from  here,  Jack." 
' '  Not  so  far  as  the  Michigan  camps, ' ' 
he  declared  lightly,  "and  I  stand  a 
better  chance.  I'm  not  fitted  for  the 
city,  it's  too  big  and  too  small  at  the 
same  time." 

Marion  nodded  understandingly.  A 
few  years  before  he  had  come  to  New 
York  to  make  his  way — one  of  the 
thousands  who  annually  set  forth  to 
conquer — and  Rose  had  been  one  of 
the  conquered.  He  longed  for  the 
freedom  of  the  lumber  camps,  the 
wide,  open  spaces  of  the  woods,  and  he 
lacked  the  aggressiveness  that  forces 
men  ahead  where  opportunities  are 
few  and  applicants  many.  He  was  not 
content  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  store,  yet  he 
could  not  advance  himself. 

Marion  herself  had  done  much 
setter.  From  file  clerk  she  had  worked 
her  advancement  until  now  she  was 
James  Elrood's  confidential  secretary, 
quiet,  alert  to  her  employer 's  interest, 


and  never  forgetful  of  her  duties.  She 
was  making  more  money  than  Jack, 
and  it  was  partly  this  thought  that 
drove  him  back  to  the  woods  when  the 
offer  came  from  the  Elk  River  Com- 
pany's foreman.  In  the  woods  he 
could  earn  enough  to  support  a  wife 
and  family.  In  the  city  he  never 
could  hope  to  gain  the  advance. 

And  so  he  went  back  to  the  Can- 
adian forests,  where,  with  each  stroke 
of  his  keen-bladed  axe,  he  liked  to 
think  that  he  was  carving  out  the  home 
that  he  should  make  for  Marion  and 
her  mother ;  and  Marion,  in  the  city, 
went  quietly  about  her  work  making 
herself  more  and  more  valuabla  to 
Elrood. 

Jack's  letters  carried  small  encour- 
agement. Several  times  it  seemed  as 
tho  promotion  were  in  his  grasp,  but 
always  there  came  the  unexpected — 
once  a  touch  of  fever,  once  a  broken 
arm,  but  always  when  he  came  back 
there  was  a  new  foreman  in  charge  of 
the  camp  and  Chance  had  again 
passed  him  by. 

"It's  the  perversity  of  Fate,"  Jack 
wrote.  "Some  time,  when  I  do  not 
need  the  luck,  it  will  come.  And  when 
I  see  Royston  and  his  family  I  envv 
them." 

The  words  came  back  to  Marion  one 
night  as  she  sat  in  her  cold  room  and 
counted  and  recounted  her  slender 
resources.  All  summer  her  mother 
had  been  slowly  failing,  and  now  the 
great  specialist  to  whom  she  had  gone 


69 


70 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE 


HE    WAS    THINKING    OF    ROYSTON'S     COURTSHIP. 


for  advice  had  ordered  her  South  for 
the  winter. 

"The  first  flurry  of  snow  will  seal 
her  death  warrant,  Miss  Marlow,"  he 
had  solemnly  assured  her.  ' '  She  must 
go  South  before  the  frost  conies,  or  it 
will  be  too  late." 

He  had  turned  to  the  next  patient 
with  no  thought  of  the  quivering  lip 
or  blanched  face.  To  him  she  was  only 
a  "case" — not  even  an  interesting 
one ;  and  now  she  sat  with  the  bank- 
book and  her  purse  before  her,  won- 
dering how  she  could  make  one  dollar 
do  the  work  of  ten. 

But  the  problem  was  solved  and 
some  weeks  later  John  Rose,  sitting  in 
front  of  the  rude  bunk  house,  read 
and  reread  the  brief  letter  that  had 
come  in  by  the  last  messenger.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  knew  it  by  heart,  yet 
he  read  it  over  and  over  again,  trying 
to  realize  that  it  was  from  Marion. 

"Dear  Jack,"  she  had  written, 
"don't  think  badly  of  me  because  I 
return  the  ring.  It  is  not  because  I 
am  tired  of  waiting,  dear,  but  because 
I  cannot  make  mother's  life  the  price. 
Mr.  Elrood  has  asked  me  to  be  his 


wife.  We  shall  be  married  in  Sep- 
tember and  the  honeymoon  will  be  to 
take  mother  South,  where  she  will  at 
least  have  a  chance  for  life.  Forgive 
and  try  to  forget.    Your  Marion. " 

A  light  step  on  the  dried  grass 
roused  him,  and  he  looked  up  with  a 
scornful  smile  on  his  lips.  Tel,  the 
daughter  of  the  half-breed,  Pierre, 
who  possessed  all  the  lithe  grace  of 
her  Indian  mother,  the  daughter  of  a 
line  of  chiefs,  made  no  secret  of  her 
affection  for  the  stalwart  woodsman. 
Whenever  he  sat  down  to  rest  and  to 
think,  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  the 
light  footfall,  as  the  girl  silently  stole 
past,  content  if  he  but  gave  her  a 
smile. 

Slowly  Rose  tore  up  the  note  and 
let  the  tiny  fragments  nutter  to  the 
ground.  "Tel,"  he  called,  "come 
here." 

With  the  rich  blood  dyeing  the  light 
tan  of  her  face  the  girl  obeyed,  eyeing 
him  wonderfully.  Rose  had  affected 
a  contempt  for  her  silent  worship.  He 
was  thinking  of  Royston's  courtship. 
It  was  seldom  that  he  spoke;  never 
had  he  called  her  to  him  before. 


PERVERSITY  OF  FATE 


71 


"Tel,  you  love  me,  don't  you?"  he 
asked.  "To-morrow  we  will  go  and 
see  the  priest.  Father  Raoul  shall 
speak  the  service.    Shall  it  be  so  ? " 

Wonderingly  the  girl  stole  toward 
him  and  raised  his  rough  hands  rev- 
erently to  her  lips. 

Rose  laughed  loudly,  mirthlessly,  as 
he  rose  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
presently  he  went  in  search  of  Pierre, 
to  whom  he  repeated  his  proposal. 

As  if  to  emphasize  the  irony  of 
fate,  promotion  came  quickly  to  Rose, 
now  that  he  no  longer  cared.  From 
foreman  of  the  gang  to  superintend- 
ent, he  rose  with  a  rapidity  that 
caused  Pierre  to  smile  and  murmur 
softly  to  himself: 

"That  girl  Tel  is  mascot  sure,  and 
Jack  Rose  she  is  ver'  lucky  that  she 
has  ol '  Pierre 's  daughter  for  her  bride. 
Her  gran'  pere  was  a  big  chief.  She 
is  of  blood  royal." 

Surely  it  seemed  as  if  Jack  was 
lucky  above  his  fellows,  for  Tel 
worked  wonders  in  making  the  simple 
hut  a  home,   and  only  the  gnawing 


thought  of  Marion  saddened  his  con- 
tent. He  had  thought  to  marry  Tel 
and  forget  his  faithless  love ;  but,  the 
more  he  strove,  the  more  she  seemed 
to  dominate  his  thoughts. 

And  so  it  was  five  years  later  when 
Le  Blanc  and  Frangois  paddled  their 
light  canoe  swiftly  up  the  river  to  the 
lumber  camp.  There  was  a  third 
figure  in  the  frail  craft  and  John 
Rose's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  as  he 
strode  down  to  the  bank  to  welcome 
the  voyageurs. 

"Mrs.  Elrood!"  he  cried  in  surprise 
as  he  lightly  lifted  her  to  the  shore. 

"Not  Marion?"  she  asked  gaily  as 
she  shook  her  skirts,  wrinkled  from 
long  sitting  in  the  canoe.  ' '  Surely  you 
should  have  a  warmer  greeting  for 
one  who  has  traveled  thousands  of 
miles  up  this  horrible  river  just  to 
see  you.  I  thought  the  Mississippi 
was  the  longest  stream,  but  I  know 
better  now." 

"To  see  me?"  echoed  Rose.  "Then 
Mr.  Elrood " 

"Is    dead!"    she    completed,    as    a 


'AND    WHEN    I    SE'3    ROYSTON    AND    HIS    FAMILY    I    ENVY    THEM. 


72 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


FATHER    RAOTJL    SHALL    SPEAK    THE     SERVICE." 


shadow  flitted  across  her  face.  "My 
sacrifice  was  in  vain,  Jack.  Mother 
died  that  winter.  Not  even  the  South 
could  save  her.  Last  spring  Mr.  El- 
rood  died,  and  I  thought  that — per- 
haps— that  you " 

She  faltered,  but  Jack  did  not  come 

to  her  aid.     Thru  the  leafy  screen  of 

the  forest  he  could  hear  Tel  as  she 

sang  about  her  work. 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  you," 


he  said  quietly.    "Mrs.  Rose  sees  few 
strangers." 

' '  Mrs.  Rose  !    You  are  married !    Im- 
possible ! ' '  cried  Marion.    ' '  Jack,  dear 

Jack,  surely  you  waited " 

Rose  hung  his  head.  "You  said 
yourself  we  had  waited  too  long,"  he 
reminded.  "It  was  not  that  I  did 
not  care.     I  sought  f orgetfulness. " 

"And   found    it?"    she    cried,    anx- 
iously.    "Oh,  Jack!" 


74 


THE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


1 


Rose  made  no  reply,  but  it  was 
clear  he  had  not  forgotten  that  Marion 
still  reigned  queen  over  his  heart. 

"She  is  your  lawful  wife?"  cried 
Marion,  "or  is  it  one  of  those  mar- 
riages with  an  Indian,  or  a  half-breed? 
There  are  many  such  wives — but  the 
union  is  not  legal." 

"We  were  married  by  a  priest,"  ex- 
plained Rose,  "but  it  didn't  need 
that  to  make  her  my  wife.  She  loves 
me.  She  is  faithful.  She  brought 
me  luck.  She  made  my  home.  She 
trusts  my  promise.  That's  the  hard 
part,  you  see — she  trusts  me ;  can  I 
prove  faithless  to  that  trust?" 

"What  is  all  that  to  love?"  cried 
Marion,  contemptuously.  "Jack,  I  am 
a  rich  woman;  a  very  rich  woman. 
She  shall  have  money.  She  can  go  to 
Quebec  or  Montreal.  In  the  novelty 
of  it  she  will  forget.  Perhaps  she 
would  prefer  to  stay  here  and 
marry  one  of  her  own  kind.  It  can 
be  arranged — with  money.  I  have 
that." 

"I  have  money,  were  that  all,"  in- 
terrupted Rose.  "  It 's  not  the  money. 
If  it  were  only  that." 

"You  care  more  for  her  than  you 
do  for  me?"  she  demanded,  jealously. 
1 '  I  am  less  to  you  than  this  half-breed 
girl.    You  no  longer  care ! ' ' 

Rose  caught  her  hand.  "  I  do  care, ' ' 
he  cried.  "There  has  not  been  a  day 
in  all  these  years  that  I  have  not  cared 
— that  the  hurt  has  not  been  here.  In 
my  sleep  I  see  your  face,  I  hear  your 
voice.  Awake ! — I  long  for  your  ca- 
ress ! ' ' 

Marion  clasped  her  hands  with  joy. 
"Then  my  trip  is  not  in  vain,"  she 
cried.  "Since  we  two  still  love,  no- 
thing else  matters.  You  will  tell  this 
little  half-breed  that  you  are  going 
away.     You  will  soon  forget  her  and 

she " 

The  man  checked  her  with  a  ges- 


ture. ' '  She  must  not  know, ' '  he  said 
earnestly.  "We  have  made  a  sad 
mistake,  and  nearly  ruined  our  lives, 
dear  heart,  but  it  must  not  touch  her. 
The  good  Father  over  at  the  mission 
has  made  us  man  and  wife.  What 
God  hath  joined  no  man  may  put  asun- 
der, unless  he  pays  the  price.  The 
price  would  fall  on  you  as  well  as  on 
me." 

"I  am  ready  to  pay,  Jack,"  she  cried 
fearlessly. 

Rose  shook  his  head. 
"You  do  not  know  the  cost.  Think 
of  the  price  that  she,  too,  must  pay. 
We  should  have  each  other.  She  would 
be  left  alone.  I  cannot  ask  her  to 
pay.    I  cannot,  I  must  not ! ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  woman  of  the 
cities  looked  into  the  brave,  fearless 
eyes  of  the  man  of  the  woods,  and 
her  own  faltered.  She  saw  that  he 
still  loved  her  with  the  love  that  never 
dies,  but  she  saw  also  that  she  could 
never  win  him.  Above  love  he  placed 
duty — duty  to  the  woman  he  had 
sworn  to  protect.  Did  she  tempt  him 
she  would  gain  only  his  physical  com- 
panionship. He  would  despise  her  for 
causing  him  to  break  his  word. 

At  her  call  the  guides  came,  and 
wonderingly  resumed  their  places  at 
the  paddles.  Thru  the  winding  trail 
his  wife  regarded  the  odd  tableau 
curiously,  then  the  paddles  dipped 
into  the  water  and  strong  strokes 
forced  the  canoe  through  the  still 
waters. 

With  folded  arms  Rose  watched  the 
woman  he  loved  borne  from  him,  and 
then  he  turned  to  the  woman  who 
loved  him.  "The  perversity  of  fate," 
he  murmured,  recalling  a  letter  writ- 
ten in  the  long  ago. 

"Luck  comes  too  late — but  honor 
stays,"  and  with  his  arm  about  Tel, 
he  turned  back  to  the  cabin  that  she 
had  made  their  home. 


"Whosoever  loves  not  picture,  is  injurious  to  truth,  and  all  the  wisdom  oi 
poetry.  Picture  is  the  invention  of  heaven,  the  most  ancient  and  most  akin 
to  nature.  It  is  itself  a  silent  work,  and  always  one  and  the  same  habit. ' ' — 
Ben  Johnson. 


Personalities  of  the  Picture  Players 


MISS    LOTTIE    BRISCOE. 

The  great  success  of  Miss  Lottie  Briscoe  as  a  photoplayer  is  not  surprising  when  it  is 
remembered  that  she  was,  for  years,  with  that  master  of  dramatic  art.  Richard  Mansfield 
Miss  Briscoe  has  already  won  a  host  of  admirers  in  the  moving  picture  world  bv  her 
clever  work  and  pleasing  personality. 


Stage  Favorites  in  the  Film 


By    Stanley    Crawford 


The   drama    makes    its    contribution   to   the 
photoplay  as  do  all  the  branches  of  literature 


AuL  branches  of  literature  make 
contribution  to  the  photoplay 
stage,  the  humorist  and  the  his- 
torian, the  novelist  and  the  dramatic 
writer,  the  scientist  and  the  sage. 

Perhaps  no  stage  production  enjoys 
more  general  favor  than  the  dramati- 
zation of  Marie  Corelli's  novel 
Thelma.  With  many  stage  directors  it 
is  a  fixed  fact  that  when  business  is 


bad  Thelma  will  build  it  up  and  the 
box  office  always  proves  the  value  of 
the  rule. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Thelma 
should  find  its  way  to  the  photoplay 
theatre.  Apart  from  its  popularity, 
the  splendid  opportunity  for  the  pre- 
sentation of  striking  scenes  would 
tempt  any  director  and  so  it  happens 
that  Thelma  has  become  a  reality  to 


€ 

; 

w           — *V 

i;-jk 

kit 

""v 

,                    i 

tj 

■■■&    ■»                ~^&iM     ^   '*  ■   a 

THE     OLD    NORSEMAN     INVITES     THE     ENGLISH     TOURISTS     TO     DINE     WITH     HIM. 
HERE    THELMA    FIRST    EXPERIENCES    THE    DELIGHTFUL    SENSATIONS    OF   LOVE. 

76 


STAGE  FAVORITES  IN  TEE  FILM 


77 


THE  PARTING.   OLAF  GULDMAR  IS  LOATH  TO  GIVE  UP  HIS  DARLING  THELMA. 


thousands,  a  living  woman,  not  a  per- 
sonage in  a  book  or  "that  dear  Miss 
Blank"  who  is  the  favorite  at  the 
local  stock  company's  home  and 
Thelma  for  a  week. 

For  theatrical  presentation  a  diver- 
sity of  scenes  is  not  practical,  but  the 
photoplay  ignores  these  limitations 
and  the  main  incidents  of  the  book  are 
portrayed  with  a  realism  that  is  not 
possible  to  the  stage  with  its  restric- 
tions of  space  and  its  painted  scenery. 

Thelma  in  picture  form  is  vastly 
more  convincing  than  the  stage  pro- 
duction, and  will  bring  delight  to 
thousands  of  admirers  of  Miss 
Corelli's  most  favored  novel. 

With  the  constant  additions  made 


highest 


to  the  list  of  visualized  literature,  the 
library  and  the  photoplay-houses  will 
become  adjuncts  of  each  other,  and  in 
course  of  time  the  field  will  be  broadly 
covered  by  a  series  of  productions  so 
carefully  made  as  to  be  worthy  of 
their  association  with  the 
forms  of  the  literary  classics. 

It  is  not  looking  too  far  into  the 
future  to  anticipate  the  time  when  the 
motion  picture  camera  will  become  an 
aid  to  the  lecturer  on  English  liter- 
ature, and  the  film  will  find  its  proper 
place  in  the  school  room  and  in  the 
lecture  hall.  Already  increasing  use 
is  being  made  of  motion  pictures  in  the 
medical  schools,  and  this  is  but  the 
first  step  in  that  direction. 


; 


MR.    G.    M.    ANDERSON. 

_  One  of  the  youngest  men  in  the  moving  picture  world,  yet  one  of  the  oldest  in  the 
industry,  is  Mr.  G.  A.  Anderson,  who  first  became  prominent  as  a  photoplayer,  then  as  a 
dirpctor,  then  as  a  playwright,  and  finally  as  a  manufacturer.  lie  is  at  present  associated 
with  Mr.  George  Spoor,  and  he  seems  to  succeed  equally  well  in  all  that  he  undertakes. 


The  Golden  Supper 


From  the  Poem  of  Lord  Tennyson 


"|  ionel!  You  love  Lionel  ? " 
j  For  answer  Camilla  hid  her 
blushing  cheek  against  the 
rough  fabric  of  Julian's  doublet,  and 
the  simple  action  told  more  eloquently 
than  words  that  to  her  he  was  but 
the  cousin  and  foster  brother.  In  a 
glance  and  a  word  the  dream  of  years 
had  vanished. 

Her  mother  dead  in  childbirth,  Ca- 
milla had  known  no  mother  but  his 
own,  and  she  had  shared  her  father 
with  him  in  return.  As  sister  and 
brother  they  had  grown  to  youth,  and 


the  simple  affection  of  the  girl  had 
found  a  rich  return  in  Julian's  love, 
a  love  so  strong  it  had  not  seemed 
that  words  were  needed. 

And  now,  as  a  sister  confides  in  her 
brother,  she  had  confessed  her  love 
for  Lionel,  and  poor  Julian  found 
the  world  suddenly  grown  grey  and 
cold. 

But  Lionel  found  words  to  tell  his 
love,  and  soon  their  troth  was 
pledged,  and  only  Julian  took  no 
pleasure  in  the  fact.  He  made  ex- 
cuse to  seek  the  wilds,   and  tho  his 


LIONEL  AND  CAMILLA  IN  THEIR  GARDEN. 

70 


*§-te-^-^9-  .v7rla-# 


TEE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


81 


LIONEL    LEADS    THE    BRIDE    TO    HIS    OWN    HOME. 


absence  robbed  the  marriage  of  one 
great  joy  to  Camilla,  she  did  not 
realize  that  it  was  a  hopeless  love  that 
kept  him  from  the  feast. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  came  home 
again,  but  sadly  changed,  and  found 
his  greatest  pleasure  in  long  walks 
among  the  hills :  for,  he  was  possessed 
by  visions,  in  which  it  seemed  that 
the  wedding  peal  was  followed  by  the 
toll  for  death,  and  this,  in  turn,  by 
wedding  bells  again. 

So  persistent  was  the  vision  that 
he  fought  down  his  desire  to  leave 
the  land  and  to  journey  in  strange 
countries  that  he  might  forget  his 
grief,  and  he  lingered  on  in  the  home 
that  had  been  theirs. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed.  Not 
once  had  Julian  seen  his  cousin,  for 
he  felt  that  to  look  upon  her  face 
again  would  only  open  the  old 
wounds,  and  he  kept  close  at  home 
until  the  dreadful  day,  when  gently 
his  mother  broke  to  him  the  news 
that  Camilla  was  no  more. 

At  least  a  part  of  the  vision  had 


come  true,  for  the  knell  had  indeed 
followed  the  marriage  chimes;  and 
with  bowed  head  and  heavy  heart 
Julian  sought  Lionel,  who  had  been 
his  friend,  to  share  his  grief. 

For  three  days  the  fair  young  bride 
had  lain  in  that  last  sleep,  and  now 
the  time  had  come  to  carry  her  to 
the  vault  wherein  her  mother  lay. 

No  casket  shrouded  the  lithe  form, 
for  in  that  land  it  was  the  custom  to 
lay  the  bier  within  a  niche  in  the 
vault,  and  slowly  Julian  followed 
the  sad  procession  that  bore  her  to  the 
tomb. 

His  tears  were  natural,  for  was  he 
not  the  foster  brother  of  the  dead? 
So  he  and  Lionel  mingled  their  grief 
above  the  still  vision  that  seemed  the 
sleep  of  life  instead  of  death.  Then 
the  mourners  went  their  way,  leaving 
the  newly  dead  among  the  ashes  of 
the  old,  and  Julian  rushed  into  the 
forest  that  so  often  had  been  the 
sanctuary  of  his  grief. 

But  he  came  again  that  night  to 
the  city  of  the  dead.    In  life  Camilla 


82 


THE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


; 


had  been  denied  him,  but  now  the 
dead  was  his;  and,  stealing  into  the 
vault,  he  struck  a  light  that  showed 
him  in  fleeting  flare  his  path  to  the 
cold  marble  where  lay  Camilla.  The 
moon  from  a  vault  high  up  lighting 
the  calm  face,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
face  of  one  that  still  lived. 

Julian  bent  and  kissed  the  cold 
lips — his  first  tender  kiss  of  love,  and 
it  seemed  that  the  softly  curving 
mouth  had  not  the  marble  chill  of 
death,  but  the  velvet  warmth  of  life. 
With  strange  persistence  the  thought 
clung  that  she  still  lived,  and  his 
trembling  hand  sought  the  snowy 
breast. 

It  could  not  be  a  delusion — faint 
but  steady  the  blood  seemed  still  to 
pulse  through  the  veins !  Half -mad 
with  doubt  and  fear  he  looked  again 
upon  the  peaceful  face.  An  eyelid 
quivered  and  the  first  faint  flush  of 
life  tinged  the  marble  of  her  cheek 
and  throat. 

With  a  great  cry  he  caught  her 
up,  and,  wrapping  her  in  his  cloak, 


bore  her  to  his  mother's  home.  More 
than  once  on  the  long  journey  he  was 
forced  to  sit  and  rest,  but  always  he 
held  the  still  form  in  his  arms,  half 
fearful  yet  that  he  had  not  wrested 
her  from  death. 

His  mother  started  at  the  appari- 
tion, as  Julian  staggered  into  the  hall 
bearing  his  lovely  burden ;  but  now 
the  breast  heaved  faintly,  the  tinge 
of  life  was  more  pronounced,  and  as 
the  dawn  drew  nigh,  the  mother 
ceased  her  ministrations ;  for  the 
trance  was  ended  and,  weak  and 
spent,  Camilla  lay  like  a  broken  lily 
nursed  again  to  bloom. 

Gently  they  told  her  of  her  trance, 
and  of  the  burial,  and  she  gave  a  little 
cry  of  surprise  and  disappointment. 
''And  was  he  so  quick  to  let  me  go?" 
she  asked,  and  the  look  of  agony  in 
her  eyes  cut  like  a  knife  her  brother- 
lover's  heart,  even  while  it  bade  him 
hope  that  he  might  yet  keep  her  for 
his  own. 

This  hope  was  soon  dispelled  by  her 
demands  that  Lionel  be  sent  for,  but 


JULIAN  LOOKS  HIS  LAST  UPON  HIS  LOVE. 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


83 


the  sorrowing  man  had  left  his  home 
to  wander  Avith  his  grief. 
"He  will  return,"  Camilla  said,  with 
faith,  "and  when  he  does,  yon,  who 
gave  me  back  my  life,  shall  give  me 
back  to  him." 

Silently  Jnlian  left  the  room  and 
took  to  horse  lest  his  temptation  be 
too  great,  but  he  left  word  that  a 
summons  might  reach  him  when 
Lionel  wras  returned. 

Meanwhile  another  life,  brought 
from  the  tomb,  came  into  being;  and 


in  grateful  recognition  Camilla  named 
her  son  after  Julian,  and  this  was  his 
reward. 

Then  Lionel  was  brought  back  from 
his  seclusion  by  the  sea,  where  he  had 
been  living  as  a  hermit;  and  Julian 
made  a  feast  for  him,  a  banquet  so 
stupendous  that  it  had  no  equal. 

With  lavish  hand  roses  were  strewn 
in  garlands  over  the  hall,  and  the 
table  gleamed  and  glittered  with  gold 
and  precious  stones  set  in  Venetian 
crystal.     A  huge  portrait  of  Camilla, 


84 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


draped  in  black,  seemed  to  lend  the 
presence  of  the  original  t«  the  feast; 
and,  when  the  guests  had  done,  Julian 
rose  to  speak. 

"It  is  a  Persian  custom, "  he  be- 
gan, "when  greatest  honor  would  be 
done  a  guest,  to  lay  before  him  every 
treasure  of  the  host." 

He  paused  and  all  the  guests  ap- 
plauded the  idea;  but  Julian  raised 
his  hand  for  silence  and  went  on. 

"The  custom  carries  further.  When 
the  guest  is  honored  to  the  utmost, 
the  host  brings  that  which  is  thrice 
dearest  to  his  heart.  But  first  I  ask  a 
question. 

"I  knew  a  man  who  had  been  served 
for  years  by  a  faithful  slave  who, 
now  grown  old  and  weak,  was  thrust 
into  the  street  to  die.  There  came 
another  man  who  pitied  his  estate, 
took  him  to  his  home  and  nursed  him 
back  to  health.  Now  to  which  man — - 
the  one  who  cast  him  forth  to  die,  or 
to  the  one  who  saved  from  death — ■ 
did  that  old  slave  belong?" 

Julian  paused,  and  with  his  silence 


the  debate  began.  Some  argued  for 
the  owner,  but  the  rest  pleaded  for 
the  man  who  had  saved  the  slave's 
life,  declaring  that  he  who  owned  the 
slave  had  cast  him  aside  as  worthless 
while  the  other  had  beneficently  ren- 
dered him  of  value. 

At  last  they  turned  to  Lionel,  who 
was  learned  in  law,  and  left  the  point 
to  him. 

"No  point  of  law  holds  good,"  was 
his  reply.  "By  all  the  claims  of  love 
and  gratitude  the  slave  belongs  to  him 
who  saved — not  to  the  one  who  cast 
away. ' ' 

Julian  smiled,  and,  turning  to  a 
friend,  made  sign  to  him  to  bring 
Camilla  in. 

She  came,  clothed  as  a  bride  with 
wondrous  veil,  and  yet,  unlike  a  bride, 
she  bore  the  rosy  infant  in  her  arms. 
"Now  are  you  fully  honored,"  said 
Julian  with  a  smile,  "for  you  behold 
all  that  I  hold  most  dear ; ' '  and  with 
a  courtly  bow  he  led  her  to  a  chair 
beside  Lionel. 

A  murmur  of  surprise  swept  over 


JULIAN'S    GIFT    TO    HIS    GUEST. 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


85 


the  hall.  She  was  so  like  her  picture 
that  some  said  that  Camilla  must  have 
had  a  sister  who  had  come  to  take  her 
place;  but  others  called  her  a  cousin, 
and  still  others  thought  her  some 
woman  from  a  foreign  clime  whose 
marvelous  likeness  to  Lionel's  dead 
bride  had  led  Julian  to  bring  her  to 
his  home. 

Questions  came  thick  and  fast,  but 
Camilla  made  no  reply,  and  when 
they  asked  her  if  she  was  dumb,  it 
was  Julian  who  answered  for  her. 
"She  is  dumb  because  she  stands, 
like  that  poor  slave  of  whom  we  lately 
spoke,  obedient  to  the  master,  who,  by 
your  own  decree,  has  every  right. 
Now  shall  I  excel  the  Persian,  for  I 


give,  to  my  beloved  guest,  that  which 
I  hold  most  dear!" 

Simply  he  told  the  story  of  his  love 
for  the  foster  sister  that  had  shared 
his  childhood  days,  told  of  the  vision 
of  the  bells  that  had  rang,  first  mar- 
riage, then  death,  and  then  joy  again. 
Told  of  her  trance,  of  his  visit  to  the 
vault,  of  her  return  to  life,  the  birth 
of  her  young  son,  and,  then,  rising, 
led  to  Lionel  the  bride  he  thought  was 
dead. 

And  with  the  climax  of  the  Golden 
Feast,  Julian  turned  from  the  hall, 
with  but  a  single  friend,  and  then 
left  the  country,  that  he  might  not 
see  the  happiness  he  had  so  generous- 
ly given  back  to  his  friend. 


The  story  will  never  go  down." — Fielding. 


A  picture  is  a  poem  without  words." — Horace. 


Art  is  more  godlike  than  science.     Science  discovers;  art  creates." — Opie. 


"There  are  shades  in  all  good  pictures,  but  there  are  lights  too,  if  we  choose 
to  contemplate  them." — Dickens. 


"He  cometh  unto  you  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and 
old  men  from  the  chimney  corner." — Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


"In  portraits,  the  grave  and,  we  may  add,  the  likeness  consists  more  in 
taking  the  general  air  than  in  observing  the  exact  similitude  of  every  feature." 
— Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 


"The  artist  is  the  child  in  the  popular  fable,  every  one  of  whose  tears  was 
a  pearl.  Ah!  the  world,  that  cruel  step-mother,  beats  the  poor  child  the 
harder  to  make  him  shed  more  pearls." — Heinrich  Heine. 


"The  first  merit  of  pictures  is  the  effect  which  they  can  produce  upon  the 
mind;  and  the  first  step  of  a  sensible  man  should  be  to  receive  involuntary 
effects  from  them.  Pleasure  and  inspiration  first;  analysis  afterward." — 
Beecher. 


MR.     HARRY     McRAE     WEBSTER. 

Scotland  has  her  chief  representative  in  the  moving  picture  world  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Harry  McRae  Webster.  Mr.  Webster's  skill  and  extensive  ex- 
perience in  all  matters  theatrical  have  served  him  in  good  stead  and  made 
him  a  notable  figure,  and  he  has  done  much  to  raise  the  standard  of  merit 
in  the  photoplay  industry. 


Elaine  in  Picture 


'Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur     *     *     *      let  proclaim  a  joust 
At  Camelot,"  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake,  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guinevere 

'Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot  move 
To  these  fair  jousts  ? "    '.'  Yea,  Lord, ' '  she  said,  '  *  ye  know  it. 

'Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answered,  "the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot."     #     *     *     And  the  Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King, 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 

: '  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  is  more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded:  and  a  heart 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth  and  say, 

"Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole, 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle;"  and  the  King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his  way. 

87 


88 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


LANCELOT'S  ARRIVAL  AT  THE  CASTLE  OF  ASTOLAT. 


He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare 

Chose  the  green  paths  that  showed  the  rarer  foot. 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs 

Full  often  lost   in   fancy,   lost  his  way; 

Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly  shadow 'd  track 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat  he  saw 

Fired  from  the  West,  far  on  a  hill  the  towers. 

Thither  he  made  and  blew  the  gateway  horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man, 

"Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm 'd. 


90 


THE    MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


••*>•■—  --""r  ■■**■ 

'^                       /»               'Ifek. 

Jj|-*  *^p*     MW^ 

.    fjar 

Mf-4' ' 

r 

LANCELOT    IS    WOUNDED    AND    UNHORSED. 


They  couch 'd  their  spears  and  prick 'd  their  steeds,  and  thus 

Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind,  they  made 

In  moving,  all  together  clown  upon  him 

Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North  Sea, 

Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears  with  all 

Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 

Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark, 

And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 

Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 

Prick 'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the  head 

Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt,  and  remained. 


BLAINE  IN  PICTURE 


91 


SIR    GAWAIN    IS    SENT    IN    QUEST    OF    LANCELOT. 


'Heaven  hinder/'  said  the  King,  "that  such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day — 
He  seemed  to  me  another  Lancelot — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Wherefore,  rise 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the  knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he  be  near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 

We  will  do  him 
No  customary  honor:  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Rise  and  take 
This  diamond  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  where  he  is  and  how  he  fares, 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until  ye  find." 


92 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


.    -  >•- 


Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  un- 

sleek,  unshorn, 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the   skeleton  of 

himself, 
Utter 'd  a  little  tender,  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so 

still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 

rolled  his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to 

him  saying, 
'Your  prize,  the  diamond,  sent  you 

by  the  King:" 
His  eyes  glisten 'd;  she  fancied  "Is 

it  forme?" 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 

the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond 

sent,  the  quest 
Assign  'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 

knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open 

hand. 


There   from   his   charger   down   he 

slid,  and  sat, 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  "Draw  the 

lance-head;" 
Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot," 

said  Lavaine. 
I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will 

die." 
But   he,    "I    die    already   with   it: 

draw — 
Draw," and  Lavaine  drew,  and 

Sir  Lancelot  gave 
A   marvelous    great    shriek   and    a 

ghastly  groan. 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and 

down  he  sank 
For    the    pure    pain    and    wholly 

swoon 'd  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 

him  in. 


ELAINE  IN  PICTURE 


93 


"I  pray  you  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said 
"That  were  against  me:  what  I  can  I  will;" 


And   Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sound; 

And  she,  by  tact  of  love,  was  well  aware 

That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 

And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his  hand, 

Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 

This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 


94 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


THE     BARGE    AT    THE     PALACE     WATER     GATE. 


-and  the  barge, 


On  to  the  palace  doorway  sliding,  paused. 

There  two  stood  arm'd  and  kept  the  door;  to  whom 

All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 

Where  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes  that  ask'd 

What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face 

As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 

Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken  rocks 

On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and  they  said, 

He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak — and  she, 

Look  how  she  sleeps — the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair ! 

Yea,  but  how  pale!     What  are  they?     Flesh  and  blood? 

Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairyland  ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die 

But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland." 


ELAINE  IN  PICTURE 


95 


THE     PROCESSION     TO     THE     SHRINE. 


So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 

The  marshal'd  order  of  their  Table  Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown 

Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 

And  mass  and  rolling  music,  like  a  Queen. 


96 


THE    MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


LANCELOT    GRIEVES    AT    ELAINE'S     BIER. 


For  what  am  I?  what  profits  me  my  name 

Of  greatest  knight  ?    I  fought  for  it,  and  have  it : 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none;  to  lose  it,  pain; 

Now  grown  a  part  of  me :  but  what  use  in  it  ? 

To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great? 

Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 

Not  after  Arthur's  heart!     I  needs  must  break 

These  bonds  that  so  defame  me:  not  without 

She  wills  it:  if  she  will'd  it?  nay, 

Who  knows?     But  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God 

I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 

To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 

And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere, 

Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 


1  he  big  ^Scoop 

By  James  Bartlett 

A   Graphic   Story  of    Panic    Days   on  "The   Street"  and    How  a 
Reporter  Regained  His  Situation 

D' 


runk  again,  "    murmured  Gor- 
don,  who  sat  at  the  head  of 
the      "rewrite"      desk      and 
nursed  a  perpetual  grouch. 

"Which  one?"  demanded  Conover, 
the  City  Editor,  wearily.  "I  wish  I 
was  editing  a  temperance  paper.  Per- 
haps then  I  could  count  on  a  staff." 

"It's  Connors,"  explained  Douglas, 
known  in  the  office  as  ' l  Gordon 's  anti- 
dote," but  you  can't  blame  the  boy. 
Three  hours  in  the  flooded  gutter  last 
night  at  the  warehouse  fire  with  thin 
shoes  and  silk  socks.  You  can't  ex- 
pect him  not  to  'take  something'  for 
it — and  you  know  Jim's  failing." 

"But  wre're  paying  him  to  work,  not 
to  get  drunk,"  protested  Conover. 
"Connors,"  he  added,  raising  his 
voice. 

Jim  Connors  made  his  uncertain 
way  to  the  desk  and  held  on  the  side 
to  steady  himself. 

"Go  to  the  cashier,"  came  the  sharp 
command.  "We  must  have  men  here 
who  can  do  their  work." 

"There's  lots  of  other  papers!"  came 
the  thick  response. 

"Then  get  one,"  was  the  quiet  retort, 
as  Conover  turned  again  to  his  work. 
Late  that  night  Jim  Connors  stag- 
gered into  the  little  flat  that  was  his 
home  and  Bessie  Connors  gave  a  pa- 
thetic little  cry. 

"Again,  Jim?"  she  asked  with  gentle 
reproach. 

"Worse  than  just  'again,'  Bess,"  he 
said,  half  sobered  by  the  thought. 
"I'm  let  out  and  Conover  said  last 
time  it  was  final." 


"It  will  come  out  all  right,"  she  as- 
sured him,  comfortingly.  "Get  a 
good  night's  rest  and  it  will  be  all 
right  in  the  morning." 

With  tender  sympathy  she  helped 
him  off  to  bed.  It  was  Jim's  curse  that 
he  loved  drink,  but  she  could  not  re- 
proach him  when  she  realized  the 
hardships  a  reporter  is  called  upon  to 
endure. 

But  it  wTas  not  all  right  in  the 
morning.  Jim,  clean  shaven  and  in 
his  right  mind,  swallowed  his  pride 
for  the  sake  of  Bess  and  begged  to  be 
taken  back.  He  even  took  appeal  to 
the  managing  editor,  wThen  Conover 
proved  adamant,  but  it  w^as  of  no  use. 
Discipline  must  be  maintained,  and 
sadly  Jim  turned  from  the  familiar 
office  to  seek  some  other  place. 

But  in  panic  times  newspapers  re- 
trench, and  everywhere  he  was  met 
writh  the  same  reply.  They  w^ere  laying 
off,  not  taking  on  men.  There  wras  no 
opening. 

Since  the  panic  w7as  most  pronounc- 
ed in  the  financial  district,  Jim  bent 
his  steps  toward  ' '  The  Street, ' '  in  the 
hope  that  he  might  pick  up  some  item 
of  newrs  that  he  could  sell  at  space 
rates.  Even  a  couple  of  dollars  would 
help.  But,  tho  he  wTent  to  all  the  offices 
where  he  was  known,  the  reply  was 
the  same.  There  was  nothing  not 
covered  by  the  City  Press. 

Long  after  the  Exchange  closed, 
and  the  busy  brokers  had  rushed  up 
to  the  uptown  hotel  that  w7as  their 
favored  gathering  place,  Jim  hung 
about  the  deserted  district  in  the  hope 


97 


98 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


"GO  TO  THE  CASHIER,"  WAS  THE  SHARP  COMMAND.   "WE  MUST  HAVE  MEN 
HERE  WHO  CAN  DO  THEIR  WORK." 


that  some  late  stayer  might  give  him 
a  tip ;  and  more  than  one  worried  offi- 
cial was  staying  long  after  hours 
planning  how  they  might  weather  the 
next  day's  storm. 

It  was  late  when  Jim  entered  a  cafe 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  sandwich, 
and  as  he  slowly  sipped  the  cof- 
fee he  was  conscious  that  men  at  the 
next  table  were  discussing  matters  of 
importance,  tho  they  spoke  so  low  that 
even  Jim's  sharp  ears  could  not  catch 
what  was  said. 

It  was  enough  for  him  that  one  of 
the  men  was  Taylor,  the  president  of 
the  Consolidated  Trust  Co.,  so  he 
listened;  and  when  they  went  out 
Connors  followed,  stopping  a  moment 
to  pick  up  a  paper  that  had  fluttered 
to  the  floor  beside  their  table. 

Almost  stealthily  they  entered  the 
side  door  of  the  bank  and  the  door 
closed  upon  them.  Jim  could  not  see 
thru  the  frosted  glass,  and  after  a 
moment's  inspection  of  the  paper, 
which    represented    nothing   to    him, 


he  decided  upon  a  bold  stroke  and 
loudly  rapped  upon  the  door. 

With  the  explanation  that  he  had  a 
paper  belonging  to  Taylor  he  brushed 
past  the  night  watchman  and  entered 
the  Director's  room.  His  appearance 
was  timely,  for  the  loss  of  the  paper 
had  just  been  discovered,  and  Taylor 
was  turning  his  pockets  inside  out 
in  the  hope  that  it  might  yet  be 
found  concealed  among  the  other 
bulky  papers  that  he  carried. 

He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  Jim 
handed  him  the  paper,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  men  forgot  his  presence  as 
they  discussed,  the  loss  of  the  sheet, 
each  seeking  to  blame  the  other  for 
the  negligence.  The  party  had  been 
joined  by  another,  whom  Jim  recog- 
nized as  the  State  Bank  Examiner, 
and  Jim  realized  that  a  big  story  was 
brewing.  He  realized  that  he  would 
not  be  permitted  to  remain  in  the 
room  much  longer,  and  with  quick 
movement  he  broke  the  end  from  a 
penholder  and  wedged  it  into  the  desk 


THE  BIG  SCOOP 


99 


telephone  standing  on  the  table  so 
that  the  lever  would  be  kept  up. 

A  moment  later  Taylor  dismissed 
him  with  a  word  of  polite  thanks  and 
the  veiled  suggestion  of  a  reward. 
Jim  accepted  the  thanks  but  declined 
the  reward.  Once  outside  the  room 
his  mind  worked  quickly.  He  knew 
that  the  telephone  desk  was  close  to 
the  private  entrance,  and  as  the 
watchman  stood  to  let  him  out,  he 
paused. 

"I'd  like  to  use  the  'phone  a  mo- 
ment," he  said,  trying  hard  to  keep 
his  voice  steady.  ' '  I  understand  about 
using  the  board. " 

"Against  orders,"  was  the  curt  re- 
sponse, but  Jim  was  insistent.  He  re- 
minded the  watchman  that  he  had 
just  performed  a  service  for  Taylor 
and  the  man  in  gray  gave  a  reluctant 
assent. 

"I've  got  to  go  and  punch  the 
clocks,"  he  said.  "Hurry  up  and  be 
done  by  the  time  I  get  back." 

With  the  time  clock  slung  from  his 


shoulder  he  started  upon  his  tour,  and 
Jim  quickly  took  his  seat  at  the  board. 
Plugging  the  jack  into  the  switch  for 
the  directors'  room,  he  was  delighted 
to  find  that  his  ruse  worked.  Assured 
of  their  privacy,  they  spoke  loudly  in 
their  excitement,  and  it  was  soon 
made  plain  that  the  Bank  Examiner 
had  not  found  their  affairs  to  his 
liking.  When  banking  hours  came  in 
the  morning,  there  would  be  a  notice 
of  suspension  on  the  heavy  plate  glass 
of  the  doors,  which  would  probably 
sound  the  doom  of  other  trust  com- 
panies that  were  already  trembling  on 
the  verge. 

Jim  could  hear  the  steps  of  the 
watchman  on  the  stone  of  the  stair- 
way and  he  got  the  Record  office. 

"Give  me  Mr.  Bruce,"  he  cried. 
"That  you,  Mr.  Bruce?  this  is  Con- 
nors, Jim  Connors.  I  've  a  clean  scoop. 
Will  you  hold  the  press  until  I  can  get 
up?" 

Bruce,  the  night  editor,  promised, 
and  with  a  hurried  word  of  thanks  to 


CONSCIOUS    THAT    THE    MEN    AT    THE    NEXT    TABLE    WERE    DISCUSSING    MATTERS 

OF    IMPORTANCE. 


100 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


i 


'I   COULDN'T  EXPLAIN  OVER  THE  'PHONE  !"   HE  GASPED,  "BUT  THE  CONSOLIDATED 
WON'T    OPEN    IN    THE    MORNING." 


the  watchman,  and  with  a  coin  to  back 
it  up,  Jim  slipped  from  the  bank.  It 
was  several  blocks  to  Broadway  and 
the  cars,  and  Jim  sprinted,  only  to  be 
stopped  by  a  watchful  policeman  sus- 
picious of  anyone  in  haste  at  that  time 
of  night  amid  the  storehouses  of 
millions.  His  reporter's  card  set  him 
right,  but  precious  moments  were 
lost. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  office,  chaos 
reigned.  Bruce  had  ordered  the  forms 
held  for  the  scoop,  and  others  hotly 
protested.  It  was  merely  some  drunk- 
en freak  of  Connors'  they  declared. 
More  than  likely  he  would  not  show 
up,  but  in  the  back  room  of  some  sa- 
loon would  sit  in  maudlin  glee  over 
the  trouble  he  had  created. 
"I'll  give  him  five  minutes,"  an- 
nounced Bruce  at  last.  Some  of  the 
men  gasped.  At  that  time  of  night, 
with  the  out-of-town  mails  to  catch, 
seconds  were  minutes  and  minutes 
hours.  Gordon,  working  overtime, 
smiled  evilly. 


With  his  eye  on  the  clock  Bruce 
waited.  One  minute,  two,  three,  four 
times  the  second  hand  had  gone  round, 
and  a  fifth  time  it  drew  close  to  the 
minute.  There  was  a  stir  outside  and 
Jim  burst  into  the  room. 

' '  I  couldn  't  explain  over  the  'phone 
because  the  watchman  was  coming," 
he  gasped,  "but  the  Consolidated 
Trust  won't  open  in  the  morning  and 
the  story  is  not  to  be  given  out!" 

It  was  Gordon  himself  who  sprang 
from  his  seat  and  thrust  Jim  into  it. 
Someone  else  brought  a  typewriter 
and  as  the  sheets  flew  from  the  ma- 
chine they  were  rushed  to  the  lino- 
type men.  There  was  no  time  to  write 
whole  sheets.  In  sentences  and  para- 
graphs the  paper  was  pulled  from  the 
machine  and  rushed  off,  and  when  Jim 
wrote  the  "30"  under  his  last  line 
Bruce  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
mails  would  be  caught  and  the  story 
was  worth  waiting  for. 
"I  guess  you've  earned  the  right  to 
another  drunk  if  you  want  one,"  he 


THE  BIG  SCOOP 


101 


said  with  a  smile,  but  Jim  shook  his 
head. 

"Me  for  the  girl  and  the  kid  and  a 
big  sleep,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 
"Don't  hurry  down  in  the  morning," 


nounced  with  a  happy  laugh  as  Bess, 
roused  from  her  nap  as  she  sat  at  the 
table,  looked  half  fearfully  up.  "It's 
high  time  you  and  the  kiddie  were  in 
bed,  little  girl,  and  that's  where  I  be- 


"IT'S     HIGH    TIME    YOU    AND    THE    KIDDIE    WERE    IN    BED. 


urged  Bruce,  "but  there  will  be  your 
old  desk  open  for  you  when  you 
come." 

With  a  grateful  pressure    of    the 
hand  Jim  hurried  away  and  the  sub- 
way whisked  him  home. 
"I'm  late  but  I'm  sober,"     he     an- 


long,  for  I  've  pulled  the  big  scoop  for 
to-morrow,  and — Gee !  but  I  'm  tired. ' ' 
Bess  understood  and  with  a  cry 
crept  into  his  arms.  Jim  had  made 
no  pledge,  but  she  felt  that  this 
time  the  wordless  promise  would  be 
kept. 


A  Cowboys  Vindication 


A  shot  during  a  struggle,  and  Frank  Morrison 
is  branded  with  the  mark  of  Cain,  but  by  his 
own    efforts    the   real    murderer  is  discovered 


"|-^rank,  do  you  suppose  he  is  going 
\  to  town  again?" 
1  "It  looks  like  it,"  admitted 
Frank  Morrison  with  a  frown.  "And 
only  yesterday  he  promised  to  leave 
drink  and  the  cards  alone.  It's  not 
altogether  Will's  fault,  tho.  The 
fellows  at  the  saloon  seem  to  take  a 
delight  in  getting  him  drunk." 

"Perhaps  if  you  went  after  him," 
suggested  the  mother,  "you  might 
induce  him  to  come  home." 

"I'll  try,"  promised  Frank,  but  it 
was  with  no  hope  of  success  that  he 
saddled  his  horse  and  rode  into  town 
after  his  errant  brother. 

Will  had  a  good  start  and  a  better 
horse,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he 
drew  rein  in  front  of  the  Golden 
Gulch  Saloon.  With  shouts  of  wel- 
come the  habitues  gleefully  pounced 
upon  him  and  dragged  him  inside  to 
buy  the  drinks  for  all.  Faro  Nan 
was  included  in  the  invitation,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  Will  stood  be- 
side the  bar  chatting  with  her  as 
Jesse  Gibbs,  a  gambler,  entered  and 
took  in  the  scene  with  one  quick 
glance.  In  a  flash  he  had  drawn  his 
gun,  but  before  he  could  fire,  Frank, 
entering  just  behind  him,  had  caught 
his  hand  and  wrenched  the  weapon 
from  him. 

"You  leave  Will  alone,"  he  sharply 
commanded  as  he  returned  the  gun 
to  the  gambler. 

"Then  tell  that  brother  of  yours  to 
keep  away  from  Nan,"  was  the  surly 
reply. 


Well  pleased  with  the  situation  Nan 
laughed  triumphantly.  She  was 
beautiful,  in  an  evil  way,  and  more 
than  one  had  paid  for  his  adoration 
with  his  life.  She  gloried  in  her 
records. 

She  suffered  Frank  to  take  his 
brother  away,  for  she  was  a  little 
afraid  of  Gibbs,  and  was  glad  to  have 
Will  out  of  the  way  for  a  time. 

The  brothers  drove  home  in  silence 
and  when  they  came  to  the  corral 
Frank  pointed  to  the  house. 
"I'll  take  care  of  your  horse,"  he 
said  shortly.  "Go  into  the  house  and 
don't  bother  mother." 

Usually  Will  was  quiet  after  one  of 
his  trips  to  town,  but  the  few  drinks 
he  had  taken  had  fired  his  blood  with 
a  desire  for  more,  and  when  Frank 
entered  he  was  locked  to  find  his 
mother  in  tears. 

Bit  by  bit  she  told  him  how  Will 
had  taken  money  from  her  purse  and 
had  slipped  out  of  the  house  again, 
and  with  an  angry  exclamation  Frank 
turned  and  retraced  his'  steps  toward 
the  corral. 

Will  was  there,  trying  with  hands 
that  trembled  in  their  haste,  to  saddle 
his  horse.  As  Frank  came  upon  the 
scene  Will  turned  with  an  ugly  oath 
and  whipped  out  his  gun.  There  was 
a  short,  sharp  struggle,  a  report,  and 
Will  sank  limply  to  the  earth. 

Stunned  by  the  thought  that  he  had 
killed  his  brother  Frank  could  only 
kneel  beside  the  body,  Avildlv  crying 
to  Will  to  speak  to  him.     He  never 


102 


A  COWBOY'S  VINDICATION 


103 


V 

1 

SjK  .r 

1     . 

y "/    T--^,-"-  2*s*»_-         *i&&§6$^                              ■  f^^fonyitff* 

PRANK    IS    UNJUSTLY    ACCUSED    OF    KILLING    HIS    BROTHER. 


saw  the  slinking  form  of  the  gambler 
hurrying  toward  his  horse.  Coming 
to  the  ranch  to  dispose  forever  of 
Will's  rivalry,  Gibbs  had  seen  his 
chance  to  blame  his  crime  on  Frank 
and  it  was  his  gnn  that  had  spoken 
at  the  very  moment  that  Will's  pistol 
was  discharged  in  the  struggle. 

But  with  cooler  thought  Frank 
realized  that  when  the  pistol  was  dis- 
charged the  gun  was  pointed  into  the 
air.  His  mind  reverted  to  the  quarrel 
of  the  morning  and  pinning  a  note 
to  Will 's  coat  announcing  that  he  was 
going  in  search  of  Will's  murderer, 
Frank  left  the  corral  and  followed 
the  tracks  clearly  made  in  the  soft 
earth  by  Gibbs'  horse,  which  was 
differently  shod  from  those  of  the 
Morrison  ranch. 

Gibbs  had  taken  a  back  trail  to 
town,  and  it  so  happened  that  the 
Sheriff  and  his  posse,  apprised  of  the 


murder  by  the  gambler,  and  riding 
to  apprehend  the  slayer,  did  not  pass 
Frank  as  he  rode  to  town.  There 
was  only  Nan  and  the  barkeeper  in 
the  Golden  Gulch  when  he  entered. 

Gibbs'  face  blanched  as  he  saw 
Frank  enter,  and  he  sought  to  draw 
his  gun,  but  the  cowboy  was  too  quick 
for  him,  and  had  him  by  the  throat 
before  he  could  draw. 

Nan  looked  curiously  on,  declining 
to  interfere  and  rather  enjoying  the 
struggle  between  the  two  men. 

Frank  had  only  surmised,  but 
Gibbs'  face  told  him  that  his  guess 
was  right,  and  the  sheriff,  riding  back 
to  town  after  a  fruitless  quest,  found 
them  there.  The  confession  was  brief, 
and  Frank,  cleared  of  the  brand  of 
Cain,  rode  back  to  comfort  the  mother 
who,  alas,  was  bereft  of  a  son,  but  of 
one  only,  for  Frank  had  found  his 
vindication. 


jriv  Prairie  riowcrl 

fln  exchange  of  Identities  in  which  it  is  Proven  that  the 
Master  is  the  Better  Han 


"  I  EXKINS  !  Mr.  Eobert  back  yet?" 
J  Henry  Ford's  voice  was  sharp 
and  quick;  the  voice  of  a  man  ac- 
customed to  command  others,  but  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  eagerness  in  the 
masterful  tones. 

"Not  yet,  sir/'  came  the  respectful 
response.  "He  said  as  how  he  was 
likely  to  be  a  little  late,  sir." 

"Little  late,"  Ford  glanced  at  the 
clock.  It  had  been  late  when  they  left 
the  opera  and  they  had  dropped  the 
Brandons  at  their  home,  a  full  half 
mile  out  of  the  way.  "Jane,  if  that 
boy  comes  home  in  the  same  condition 
he  was  in  last  night,  I'm  going  to  send 
him  away." 

"Boys  will  be  boys,"  she  reminded. 
"There  was  a  time  when  you  sowed 
wild  oats,  Henry." 

"I  know  I  did,"  was  the  unexpect- 
edly frank  response,  "but  if  I  had 
sown  as  many  as  Bob,  I'd  be  cutting 
hav  vet.  It's  for  the  boy's  own  good, 
Jane." 

He  turned  as  there  came  from  the 
hall  the  smothered  voice  of  expostula- 
tion, a  thick  protest  and  an  opera  hat 
rolled  into  the  room,  followed  by  Rob- 
ert Ford  who  the  moment  before  had 
thrown  the  hat  at  the  expostulating 
Jenkins. 

"I -thought  so!"  cried  the  father. 
"Bob,  you've  had  your  last  chance.  I 
told  you  last  night  that  if  you  ever 
came  home  in  that  condition  again  I 
would  send  you  West.  I'm  going  to 
do  it,  sir,  to-night — now  !" 

Bob  waived  his  hand  in  an  amiable 
gesture  of  acquiescence  and  fell  into  a 


convenient  chair,  promptly  going  to 
sleep.  He  was  oblivious  alike  to  the 
weeping  mother  and  his  angry  father. 
It  had  been  something  more  than  a 
year  since  the  threat  of  being  sent  to  a 
ranch  had  alarmed  him.  He  had  heard 
the  cry  of  "Wolf !"  too  often  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  am  sa}7^?"' 
demanded  Ford.  "I  tell  you  that  I 
shall  send  you  West  unless  you  prom- 
ise to  mend  your  ways." 

"All  ri',"  "assented  Bob.  "Tell  me 
res'  in  mornin'.     Goo'  night." 

Ford  straightened  up  hopelessly. 
His  wife  plucked  at  his  arm  timidly. 

"He's  a  clear  good  boy,  Henry,"  she 
pleaded.  "It  is  merely  that  he  has  bad 
associates.  There  is  no  real  harm  in 
him." 

"Precisely  why  he  is  worth  while 
saving,"  explained  Ford  as  he  shook 
her  off  with  gentle  roughness.  "Jen- 
kins !" 

He  raised  his  voice  to  a  shout,  but 
Jenkins  appeared  with  a  promptness 
that  argued  that  the  valet  had  been 
listening  outside  the  door.  Silently 
the  man  received  instructions  to  pack 
Bob's  grip  and  see  that  he  caught  the 
morning  train,  and  after  completing 
the  task  somewhat  reluctantly,  he 
touched  his  forehead  in  acknowledg- 
ment and  turned  to  the  sleeping  lad, 

Bob  responded  to  his  persuasion,  for 
more  than  once  Jenkins  had  let  him 
into  the  house  without  disturbing  the 
old  gentleman,  and  had  lied  loyally 
afterward  as  to  Bob's  condition  at  his 
homecoming.     Stupidly  Bob  made  his 


105 


106 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


'ALL   BI  ,    TELL   ME   THE   EES     IN   THE    MOBNIN  . 


exit,  leaving  his  father  declaiming  vio- 
lently to  hide  his  own  sudden  flood  of 
tenderness. 

It  was  several  days  later  that  Bob 
and  the  faithful  Jenkins  arrived  at 
Midland,  the  closest  railroad  station  to 
Star  Ranch,  where  Henry  Jones  raised 
the  cattle  whose  flanks  bore  the  Lone 
►Star  of  the  State.  Jones  and  Ford  had 
been  college  chums,  had  entered  the 
same  fraternities,  and  each,  in  his  way, 
had  been  successful. 

Jones  had  been  advised  by  telegram 
of  Bob's  coming  but  the  wire  had 
mentioned  no  train,  and  the  travelers 
had  made  better  time  than  was  expect- 
ed. For  his  old  chum's  sake  he  was 
glad  to  take  Bob  in,  but  he  did  not 
like  the  idea  of  having  a  roystering 
young  chap  from  the  city  where  his 
pretty  and  susceptible  daughter,  Flora, 
might  fall  in  love  with  him. 

It  was  well  after  train  time  when  his 
foreman  arrived  in  town  for  the  mail, 


and  dropped  into  the  hotel  to  ask  the 
clerk  to  send  Bob  on  to  the  ranch  on 
his  arrival,  and  in  that  interval  Bob 
had  been  inspired  with  an  idea. 

The  idea  came  from  Bob's  knowl- 
edge that  Jenkins  carried  a  letter  to 
Jones  from  the  elder  Ford.  It  was 
unsealed  and  Bob  grinned  as  he  read  it 
thru.  It  was  not  a  long  letter  but 
right  to  the  point: 

New  York,  May  7,  1910. 
My  dear  Habby, — 

My  son,  Robert,  has  been  on  a  spree 
and  needs  bracing  up.  Take  care  of 
him  for  me  and  give  him  plenty  of 
hard  work.  Jenkins,  his  valet,  who 
hands  you  this,  will  assist  you  in  keep- 
ing him  straight.  May  come  out  later 
myself. 

Your  old  schoolmate, 

Henby  Fobd. 

"Jenkins  !"  Bob's  tone  was  of  judi- 
cial severity.  "I  don't  like  this  idea 
of  hard  work.     I  think  that  we'll  just 


MY  PRAIRIS  FLOWER 


107 


swap  identities  for  a  while.  You  will 
do  the  hard  work,  Jenkins,  and  I'll 
have  the  harder  work  of  assisting  in 
keeping  you  straight." 

"But  the  master — "  began  Jenkins 
faintly.     "He  said,  sir — " 

"Never  mind  what  he  said/'  or- 
dered Bob  sternly.  "It's  a  bad  thing 
for  a  servant  to  repeat  bits  of  gossip 
that  he  overhears.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  it.  I'm  saying  that  you  are  to  be 
Kobert  Ford  for  a  time,  and  you  want 
to  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  disgrace 
the  honored  name  you  bear,  and  that 
you  work  hard  to  get  all  that  alcohol 
out  of  your  system.     You  hear  me?" 

The  habit  of  obedience  was  strong 
within  him,  and  Jenkins  meekly  an- 
swered "Yessir,"  and  wondered  miser- 
ably what  the  elder  Ford  Avould  say 
if  he  found  out.  He  was  still  receiving 
instructions  from  Bob  when  the  clerk 
entered  to  announce  that  a  man  had 
come  from  the  ranch  and  would  take 


them  back  with  him.  Jenkins  made  a 
dive  for  the  grips,  but  a  warning  kick 
from  Bob  when  the  others  had  their 
backs  turned,  reminded  him  that  he 
was  "Mr.  Ford"  now,  and,  rather  en- 
joying the  sensation,  he  led  the  way 
grandly  from  the  room. 

It  was  a  rough  ride  through  the  al- 
kali, and  both  master  and  man  were 
glad  when  the  inviting  green  of  the 
ranch  house  grove  came  into  view.  For 
a  moment  Bob  half  decided  to  resume 
his  own  identity,  when  he  caught  sight 
of  Flora  on  the  porch,  standing  beside 
her  parents;  but  the  thought  of  the 
hard  labor  changed  his  mind  again,  and 
leaping  lightly  to  the  ground  he  turned 
to  assist  Jenkins  out. 

Instinctively  the  valet  turned  to  get 
the  grips,  but  a  low  growl  from  Bob 
reminded  him  of  his  new  estate,  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  greeting  the  dis- 
appointed Jones  and  the  wondering 
Flora.  A  tug  at  his  coat  reminded 
him.  and  in  a  careless  fashion  he  made 


A  TUG  AT  HIS  COAT  REMINDED  HIM  OF  HIS  POSITION. 


108 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


Bob  known  as  his  valet  and  Bob  was 
honest  enough  to  blush. 

Jones  called  one  of  the  men  to  help 
Jenkins  with  the  bags  and  dismissed 
him  from  his  thoughts.  He  was  wor- 
ried about  his  guest,  and  more  than 
ever  he  was  decided  that  it  would  be 
well  to  keep  him  away  from  Flora  as 
much  as  possible.  ■  A  quiet  glance  from 
his  wife  confirmed  this  opinion,  and  as 
her  mother  led  Flora  into  the  house 
Jones  suggested  to  Jenkins  that  they 
take  a  look  over  the  ranch  buildings. 

Bob  was  surprised  to  find  that  ranch 
houses  are  as  well  furnished  as  places 
"'back  east,"  for  the  room  into  which 
he  was  led  was  as  comfortable,  tho  not 
quite  as  elegant,  as  bis  own  apartments 
in  New  York.  He  looked  longingly  at 
the  soft  bed  and  the  lounging  chair 
close  to  the  shaded  lamp,  but-  his  escort 
brought  him  rudely  back  to  earth. 

".Dump  your  boss'  grip  and  come 
along,"  he  suggested.  "I  got  to  get 
back  to  my  own  work.  You  can  come 
back  to  fix  him  up." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  stairs  and 
across  the  yard  to  the  low  bunk  house. 
Here  was  the  real  "roughing  it,"  and 
for  a  second  time.  Bob's  heart  failed 
him,  as  he  glanced  at  the  tiers  of  bunks 
three  high,  and  was  told  that  as  a  new- 
comer he  would  have  to  sleep  in  one 
of  the  topmost  row. 

"T  have  to  be  in  the  house,"  he 
remonstrated ;  "Mr.  Ford  will  want  me 
early  in  the  morning." 

"Hell  get  you,"  was  the  unfeeling 
response.  "We  get  up  at  four  and  I 
guess  you  can  get  across  the  yard  be- 
fore he  gets  up.  We'll  see  you  don't 
oversleep." 

There  was  a  meaning  in  the  grin 
with  which  the  last  sally  was  greeted, 
and  as  one  of  the  men  threw  his  suit 
case  into  the  despised  bunk,  Bob  sank 
upon  the  edge  of  the  lower  one  with  a 
groan  of  dismay.  He  was  game,  but 
there  seemed  little  choice  between  the 
hard  work  for  Bob  Ford  and  the  hard 
bed  for  Jenkins.  He  was  sorry  he 
had  not  remained  Ford. 

The  feeling  was  emphasized  a  little 
later  when  Bob  went  back  to  the  house. 
The    Jones    family   were    just    sitting 


down  to  an  appetizing  supper;  and 
Jenkins,  cordial  with  a  manner  that 
would  have  been  a  laughable  imitation 
of  Bob's  own  air,  had  he  an  apprecia- 
tion of  humor  at  the  moment,  was 
making  himself  pleasant  to  all. 

"Everything  all  right,  Jenkins?"  he 
asked,  condescendingly,  as  Bob  touched 
his  hat.  "Better  get  your  supper,  my 
man.  I  shall  not  need  you  until  bed- 
time." 

He  nodded  to  indicate  that  the  in- 
terview was  over,  and  turned  to  Jones, 
Avho  indicated  that  he  was  to  sit  next 
Flora.  Unconsciously  Bob  reached  for 
a  chair,  to  Jones'  shocked  surprise; 
and  Jenkins,  mindful  of  the  kicks  he 
had  received,  let  his  face  broaden  into 
a  grin  that  changed  into  a  look  of 
shocked  surprise  as  Jones  turned  ap- 
pealingly  to  him. 

"Jenkins,"  he  said  severely.  "I  am 
surprised  at  you.  Eetire  immediately, 
and  remember,  my  man,  that  Texas  is 
the  same  as  New  Y'ork." 

Flora's  look  of  surprise  made  Bob 
wince,  and  as  he  turned  away  he  re- 
membered the  letter. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  with  the 
salute  he  had  copied  from  Jenkins.  "I 
was  'most  forgetting,  sir.  A  letter 
from  Mr.  Ford,  sir." 

He  handed  Jones  the  letter  and 
smiled  at  the  appeal  in  Jenkins'  eyes. 
He  watched,  as  Jones  read  the  brief 
letter;  and  when  the  ranchman  had 
placed  it  in  his  pocket  he  enlarged 
upon  the  habits  of  the  supposed  Ford, 
and  the  necessity  for  making  him  work 
very  hard,  until  Jenkins  lost  his  appe- 
tite for  game  pie  and  the  other  tasty 
dishes,  and  pleaded  a  headache,  which 
only  served  to  confirm  Jones  in  his  de- 
cision to  "work  it  out  of  him"  in  the 
most  complete  fashion. 

Slipping  from  the  "big  house,"  Bob 
sought  the  lair  of  cookee  and,  attracted 
by  the  savory  odors,  found  to  his  sur- 
prise that  bacon  and  potatoes  are  de- 
cidedly tasty  to  a  hungry  man,  and  that 
good  coffee  from  a  tin  cup  is  good 
coffee  still. 

There  was  a  steady  stream  of  rough 
witticisms  directed  at  Bob,  but  he  took 
it  all  good-naturedly,  answered  in  kind, 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


109 


and  by  the  time  the  meal  was  over  he 
was  so  thoroly  in  their  good  graces  that 
Jim  Langdon  decided  that  he  should 
have  a  drink  from  his  flask  to  farther 
the  cementation  of  friendship.  For  a 
moment  Bob  clntched  eagerly  at  the 
flask.  Beyond  the  "tapering  off" 
drinks  on  the  morning  of  his  departure, 
the  watchful  Jenkins  had  seen  that 
there  was  no  opportunity  to  obtain 
whiskey.  Now,  the  very  odor  of  the 
raw  liquid  fired  his  blood,  and  he 
greedily  raised  the  flask  to  his  lips. 

He  stopped  and  put  it  from  him. 
He  knew  what  the  result  would  be,  and 
he  could  picture  the  look  of  grieved 
surprise  in  Flora's  face  when  she  saw 
him  intoxicated. 

"I'm  much  obliged/'  he  said  simply, 
"but  it's  'bad  medicine'  for  me,  old 
man/' 

"You  mean  you're  too  good  for  this 
crowd  ?  You  don't  want  to  drink  with 
us?"  came  the  truculent  demand. 

"Not   at   all,"   pleaded   Bob.      "It's 


merely  that  whiskey  doesn't  agree  with 
me — or  agrees  with  me  too  well.  Have 
it  either  way." 

"You  take  a  drink!" 

Langdon  offered  the  bottle  with  one 
hand  and  in  the  other  he  presented  his 
revolver.  He  had  had  two  drinks, 
which  was  just  enough  to  stir  up 
trouble. 

"I  have  no  gun  and  I  wouldn't  use 
one  if  I  had,"  cried  Bob,  hotly.  "I  tell 
you  I  don't  want  to  drink  because  it's 
not  good  for  me  and  you  offer  to  shoot. 
I  fight  with  my  fists,  man  fashion.  If 
vou  want  to  try  that  way  come  out- 
side." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk."  Bud  Hen- 
drie  sprang  to  Bob's  side  and  laid  an 
approving  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"You're  some  fighter,  Jim.  Make 
good." 

Nothing  loath,  Langdon  slipped  off 
holster  and  cartridge  belt,  and  let  them 
tie  the  boxing  gloves  on  his  hands. 
Bob  had  expected  bare  fists  and  was 


LANGDON  FELL  HEAVILY  TO  THE  GROUND. 


110 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


glad  that  it  was  to  be  with  gloves,  tho 
there  was  little  of  the  original  padding 
left  in  the  gloves.  Bob  slipped  out  of 
his  coat  and  into  his  gloves,  and  the 
whole  crowd  adjourned  to  the  front  of 
the  cook  house  where  an  impromptu 
ring  was  quickly  formed. 

It  was  a  short  fight  but  a  good  one. 
Langdon  was  no  mean  adversary  in 
either  skill  or  strength,  and  had  a 
slight  advantage  in  weight;  but  Bob, 
in  his  better  moments,  was  something 
of  an  athlete,  and  knew  how  to  handle 
himself  well.  Indeed,  a  champion  mid- 
dleweight had  gained  a  fat  check  for 
teaching  Bob  the  secrets  of  his  knock- 
outs. Bob  sparred  to  hold  Langdon 
off,  and,  when  he  saw  his  chance,  he 
shot  over  a  blow  that  had  earned  for 
its  inventor  a  belt  and  a  title,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  inevitable  vaudeville 
engagement. 

Langdon,  taken  off  his  guard,  fell 
heavily  and  took  the  count,  but  soon 
was  on  his  feet  and  as  eager  as  the  rest 
to    shake    Bob's    hand.      The    sudden 


change  in  the  temper  of  the  crowd  was 
a  surprise  to  Bob,  and  with  entire 
frankness  he  explained  the  reason  of 
his  refusal,  and  pledged  his  friendship 
to  them  all.  He  was  now  a  full- 
fledged  member  of  the  bunk  house,  and 
Langdon  even  offered  him  his  own 
lower  berth,  a  proffer  that  Bob  was  too 
generous  to  accept. 

He  spent  a  better  night  than  Jen- 
kins, who  tossed  restlessly  upon  the  soft 
mattress,  as  he  dreamed  that  he  had 
been  sent  to  herd  cows,  and  that  the 
fierce  animals  had  turned  on  him. 
Jenkins  had  the  city  man's  dislike  for 
animals  with  horns,  and  Jones  took  a 
pride  in  his  little  herd  of  Longhorns 
as  a  breed  that  was  fast  disappearing 
and  soon  to  be  almost  as  rare  as  the 
buffalo. 

He  woke  to  find  his  master  standing 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  regarding 
his  slumbers  with  amusement. 

"It's  about  time  you  got  up,  Jen- 
kins," he  said  pleasantly.  "I've  been 
up    about    two    hours    and    have    had 


A  STRANGE  AND  FRIGHTENED  COWBOY. 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


111 


SEE.   HE   IS   FALLING 


breakfast.  Get  into  these  togs.  They 
are  your — er — working  clothes,  you 
know." 

Jenkins  regarded  with  marked  dis- 
favor the  rough  clothing,  the  chaps  and 
spurs  that  told  of  work  on  horseback; 
but  he  knew  better  than  to  disobey, 
and  rose  with  a  groan  as  Jones  entered 
to  see  if  his  guest  lacked  for  anything. 

With  Flora  not  present,  Bob  was 
able  to  embroider  the  tale  of  the  sup- 
posed Fords'  misbehavior,  and  to  dilate 
upon  the  father's  eagerness  that  the 
son  would  work  hard. 

"He's  right,"  assented  Jones  heart- 
ily. "I'll  see  to  it  that  your  master 
has  plenty  of  exercise.  You  won't 
know,  him  in  three  months.  We'll 
build  out  that  flat  chest  and  put  some 
flesh  on  those  thin  arms.  You  leave 
him  to  me." 

Jenkins  shivered  at  the  suggestion 
contained  in  the  last  words,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it;  and,  looking  very 
little  like  a  cowboy,  he  was  led  to 
breakfast  and  then  to  the  sacrifice.  The 


little  knot  of  cowboys  were  waiting  for 
him  in  front  of  the  ranch  house,  and 
Bob  could  scarcely  restrain  his  laugh- 
ter when  he  assisted  his  frightened 
valet  into  the  saddle.  Jones  had  picked 
out  a  horse  safe  enough  but  scarcely 
to  be  called  gentle  and  Jenkins  bounced 
about  in  the  saddle  disgracefully  as 
Avith  a  whoop  the  cowboys  surrounded 
him  and  raced  off. 

Bob  lingered  for  a  moment  talking 
to  Jones,  as  Flora  emerged  from  the 
house  in  her  riding  habit,  and  a  man 
brought  up  her  pony.  She  bowed  cold- 
ly in  response  to  Bob's  defferential  sa- 
lute, and  for  a  moment  he  felt  hurt, 
until  he  could  realize  that  to  her  he 
was  only  a  servant. 

She  was  scarcely  in  the  saddle  when 
her  mount  shied,  and  Bob,  alert  to  her 
slightest  movement,  sprang  to  the 
horse's  head.  This  time  a  smile  was 
his  reward  as  she  cantered  off. 

He  looked  after  her  longingly,  and 
Jones,  who  found  the  imitation  valet 
more  to  his  liking  than  the  real  valet. 


112 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


suggested  that  he  might  like  to  take  a 
ride  himself.  Bob  eagerly  accepted  the 
invitation,  and  a  little  later  he  com- 
manded the  respect  of  the  cowboys  by 
not  "grabbing  leather,"  when  the  usu- 
ally quiet  horse  took  it  into  his  head 
to  do  a  little  pitching.  The  only  re- 
sult was  to  dislodge  a  sombrero  several 
sizes  too  small. 

Jones  offered  to  see  if  he  could  find 
a  larger  one,  and  with  an  impatient 
"All  right/'  Bob  tossed  the  hat  to  one 
of  the  men  and  headed  his  horse  after 
Flora.  Someone  called  after  him  but 
he  did  not  hear  what  they  said.  All 
that  was  important  was  that  Flora  was 
far  ahead. 

He  had  not  thought  it  possible  that 
the  sun  could  be  so  hot.  It  beat  cruelly 
upon  his  unprotected  head,  and  soon 
his  handkerchief  was  soaked  with  per- 
spiration. But  now  Flora  was  scarcely 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  and  Bob 
pressed  on,  tho  his  head  was  swim- 
ming, and  only  a  perfect  seat  enabled 
him  to  keep  in  the  saddle. 

The  girl,  unconscious  of  having  been 
followed,  turned  carelessly  as  she  heard 
the  beat  of  hoofs,  but  her  face  went 
white  as  she  saw  the  rider  reel  in  the 
saddle  and  fall  limply  forward.  The 
startled  pony  wheeled  and  broke  into 
a  gallop  and  Flora  put  the  spurs  to  her 
own  horse  and  followed.  The  way  was 
rough  and  there  was  no  telling  when 
that  limp  form  might  fall  from  the 
saddle  to  find  death  under  the  flying 
hoofs.  It  was  a  hard  ride  but  she  won, 
and  pulled  up  the  horse  at  a  water 
hole  not  a  mile  away. 

She  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was 
the  valet,  but  pity  was  her  uppermost 
emotion,  and  she  soon  had  him  out  of 
the  saddle  and  in  the  cool  shade  where 
she  bathed  the  fevered  head,  and  used 
her  own  sombrero  as  a  fan. 

Bob  quickly  recovered  consciousness, 
but  he  found  her  tender  ministrations 
very  comforting,  and  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  obey  her  injunction  to  lie  still 
until  he  was  better.  He  was  willing 
to  lie  there  all  clay  but  she  was  anxious 
to  get  him  to  the  house  where  more 
effective  aid  could  be  rendered  and, 
half  supporting  him,  she  led  him  to  his 


pony  and  helped  him  into  the  saddle. 
Then,  with  the  reins  within  easy  reach, 
she  led  him  toward  the  ranch. 

Jones  and  Jenkins  were  sitting  on 
the  porch  of  the  ranch  house  as  they 
rode  up,  and  Jones  hurried  forward 
with  real  concern  to  lift  Bob  from  the 
saddle.  His  action  was  so  different 
from  his  merciless  joking  over  Jen- 
kins' laments  at  the  hard  ride  he  had 
taken,  that  the  valet  scowled.  He,  too, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Flora,  and  it 
was  bitterness  to  think  that  the  master, 
in  spite  of  the  masquerade,  held  the 
inside  track. 

He  was  of  little  importance  until 
after  Bob  had  been  made  comfortable, 
and  the  further  affront  to  his  dignity 
only  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his 
love.  Perhaps  it  was  that  which  ren- 
dered him  reckless  of  consequences 
when,  the  following  afternoon,  he  came 
upon  Flora  at  the  water  hole  where 
the  day  before  she  had  rescued  Bob. 
With  a  blush  of  maidenly  shame  she 
recalled  the  scene  to  her  mind,  and 
thought  of  how  gratefully  he  had  held 
her  hand,  longer,  perhaps,  than  mere 
gratitude  required.  The  soft  flush  that 
mantled  her  cheek  at  the  thought  made 
her  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  Jen- 
kins, coming  suddenly  upon  her,  lost 
his  head  completely. 

In  impassioned  speech  he  told  her  of 
his  love  and  begged  her  to  elope  with 
him.  She  shrank  back  from  his  in- 
temperate declarations.  She  knew  that 
Ford  had  been  sent  to  the  ranch  to 
avoid  drink.  It  seemed  as  tho  he  must 
have  obtained  some  from  the  cowboys 
in  spite  cvf  the  strict  rules.  Thoroly 
alarmed,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
Jenkins  clasped  her  in  his  arms;  when 
an  unexpected  thing  happened.  As  tho 
in  answer  to  her  cry,  Bob  came  upon 
the  scene  and  with  an  exclamation  of 
anger  threw  the  valet  to  the  ground. 
Jenkins  rose  with  a  snarl,  thinking  it 
one  of  the  cowboys;  but  at  the  sight 
of  Bob  he  cringed. 

"Get  out,"  commanded  Bob  briefly. 

For  a  moment  Jenkins  hesitated. 
He  had  a  wild  notion  of  defying  Bob 
and  refusing  to  go ;  but  habit  is  strong, 
and    with    an    unconscious    salute    he 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


113 


turned  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps 
toward  the  house. 

"One  would  think  you  were  the  mas- 
ter/ not  the  man,"  cried  Flora  as  she 
turned  to  Bob. 

"I'm  a  man/'  he  reminded.  "Any 
cad  like  that  would  obey  in  such  a 
case." 

"But  the  salute  ?"  she  reminded.  At 
the  first  glance  she  had  guessed  the 
truth. 

"That  gets  me/'  admitted  Bob  with 
a  laugh.  "But  let's  forget  the  boss. 
I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  thank  you 
for  all  your  kindness  yesterday  and 
there  could  not  be  a  more  appropriate 
spot  than  the  scene  of  my  Waterloo." 

"You  remember  the  place?"  she 
asked  quickly  and  the  color  surged  to 
her  cheeks  again. 

Bob  threw  off  his  sombrero,  this  time 
one  that  fitted,  and  sank  upon  the  grass 
at  her  feet. 


"Can  I  ever  forget  it?"  he  asked 
soberly. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  livery  rig 
from  town  came  toiling  through  the 
alkali  and  discharged  Henry  Ford. 

"I  had  to  come  after  the  boy/'  he 
said  awkwardly,  when  he  had  ex- 
changed greetings  with  his  old  chum, 
and  had  been  made  known  to  Mrs. 
Jones. 

"I've  got  him  working  hard,  as  you 
told  me,"  explained  Jones  placidly. 

"It  looks  like  it,"  suggested  Bob's 
father  drily,  as  that  young  man  came 
cantering  toward  the  house  with  Flora, 
so  engrossed  in  their  conversation  that 
he  did  not  see  the  group  on  the  porch. 

"His  man  may  be  able  to  tell  you 
more  than  I  can,"  suggested  Jones,  and 
Ford  gave  a  shout. 

"His  man!"  he  echoed.  "I'll  bet 
the  boy  has  got  Jenkins  doing  his  hard 
work  for  him.  Bob,  you  scamp,  here's 
3^our  old  father  come  to  see  you." 

Bob  slipped  quickly  from  his  horse 


'MY   PRAIRIE   FLOWER. 


114 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


and  gave  his  father  a  hug  then  turned 
to  lift  Flora  from  her  horse. 

"Jenkins,"  he  said,  as  the  valet 
came  softly  from  the  house.  "Take 
my  father's  things  up  to  my — your — 
er — my — er — the  room  you  slept  in  last 
night.  Hang  it  all,  I  don't  know  what 
I  do  mean,  but  get!" 

Jenkins  "got,"  glad  that  there  was 
no  more  serious  demonstration,  and 
Bob  turned  to  his  father. 

"It's  all  your  fault,"  he  cried  gaily. 
"You  gave  Jenkins  the  note  asking 
Mr.  Jones  to  make  me  work  hard." 

"I'll  take  the  blame,"  agreed  his  fa- 
ther, and  with  that  slight  explanation 
everyone  was  content.  It  was  enough 
that  Bob  was  Bob,  and  not  the  valet. 
Not  so  much  that  they  regarded  posi- 
tion as  that  they  did  not  like  Jenkins, 
and  it  was  a  happy  party  that  sat  at  the 
supper  table,  while  Jenkins  mourn- 
fully   supped   in   the    cook-house    and 


found  it  hard  to  get  in  touch  w'th    .. 
fellows. 

The  next  afternoon  Flora,  sitting  on 
the  stump  beside  the  water  hole, 
thoughtfully  pulled  the  petals  from  a 
daisy  and  repeated  the  magic  formula. 

Her  face  fell  as  the  last  petal  flut- 
tered from  her  fingers  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  "He  loves  me  not,"  and  in 
her  disappointment  she  did  not  hear 
the  light  laugh  behind  her  until  a  pair 
of  strong  arms  clasped  her  waist. 
"Better  try  it  again  with  another  daisy 
— unless  you  want  to  take  my  word  for 
it,"  cried  Bob.  "I  think,  on  the  whole, 
it's  better  to  take  my  word  for  it.  It 
saves  the  daisies  and  the  worry,  dear. 
It  was  for  me,  sweetheart?" 

For  a  moment  Flora  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder,  then  she  raised 
her  head  and  smiled. 

"Well — it  wasn't  for  Jenkins,"  she 
answered,  and  hid  her  face  again. 


Maurice  Costello 


Lis 


MAURICE  COSTELLO,  whose  work  as  a  local  favorite  for  many- 
years  in  Spooner's  stock  company,  the  American  stock  company, 
at  the  Columbia  Theatre,  the  Yorkville  stock  company  of  Man- 
hattan and  Boyle's  stock  company  of  Nashville,  Tenn.,  has  brought 
him  into  eminence  as  a  leading  man  both  in  juvenile  and  heavy  char- 
acters, has  distinguished  himself  as  a  star  and  feature  of  the  "life 
portrayals"  which  have  made  him  known  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 

His  characterizations  always  show  a  masterful  appreciation  of  the 
requirements  that  bear  the  impress  of  genius  peculiar  to  the  moving 
picture  star;  nofceable  instances  of  which  are  seen  in  his  portrayals  of 
the  actor  in  "Through  the  Darkness,"  "Orestes,"  "Electra,"  and  "St. 
Elmo"  in  the  "life  portrayal"  of  the  same  name.  He  will  perform  a  most 
wonderful  impersonation  of  Sydney  Carton  in  the  production  of  "The 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  which  is  in  process  of  construction. 


MAURICE   COSTELLO. 


THE  BERLITZ  SCHOOL 
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IRe  Notion 


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Magazine 


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MARCH  11 


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©HIS  Magazine  is  owned,  and  published  monthly,  by  The  M.  P.  Publishing  Co.,  a 
New  York  corporation ;  office  and  principal  place  of  business,  26  Court  Street, 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  City;  J.  Stuart  Blackton,  President ;  D.  Roy  Shafer,  Vice-President  ; 
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Including  postage  in  the  United  States,  Cuba  and  Mexico;  in  Canada,  and  in  other  foreign 
countries.  $2.00.  All  manufacturers  of  motion  pictures  are  invited  to  submit  pictures  and 
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manuscripts  must  be  accompanied  with  return  postage,  and  must  be  submitted  at  the  owner's 
risk.  Contributors  should  retain  copy  of  all  matter  submitted.  The  contents  of  this 
magazine  are  protected  by  copyright. 

Copyright,  1911,  by  The  M,  P.  Publishing  Co. 

Application  has  been  made  at  the  Brooklyn  Post  Office  for  entry  as  second-class  matter. 


Personalities  of  the  Picture  Players 


MISS    LOTTIE    BRISCOE. 

The  great  success  of  Miss  Lottie  Briscoe  as  a  photoplayer  is  not  surnrisin'*  when  it  ta 
remembered  that  she  was,  for  years,  with  that  muster  of  dramatic  art  Richard  IfanqflpM 
Miss  Briscoe  has  already  won  a  host  of  admirers  in  the  moving  picture  world  'bv  hS 
clever  work  and  pleasing  personality.  °  *  u   w,y    UC1 


MAURICE  COSTELLO. 


MISS    ALICE    JOYCE. 

One  of  the  familiar  figures  in  the  moving  picture  world,  and  one  of  the  most  popular,  is 
Miss  Alice  Joyce.  Miss  Joyce  made  her  debut  before  the  public  as  a  moving  picture  player, 
she  having  had  no  previous  experience  upon  the  stage  ;  but,  from  her  grace  and  acting,  this 
would  hardly  be  believed,  even  by  the  most  critical  observer,  and  it  is  the  consensus  of  opinion 
that  the  histrionic  talents  of  Miss  Joyce  are  quite  equal  to  her  beauty — which  is  saying  a 
great  deal. 


Mr.  Charles  Kent 

Charles  Kent  is  an 
actor  of  international 
reputation,  and  lie  has 
lately  acquired  a  repu- 
tation equally  great  in 
the  moving  picture 
■world,  not  only  as  a 
picture  player,  but  as  a 
director,  for  he  has  also 
staged  a  number  of 
elaborate  picture  plays, 
notably   "  Lancelot    and 


companymg  pic- 
tures of  Mr.  Kent 
will  doubtless  be 
recognized  with 
pleasure  by  thou- 
sands of  readers, 
for  he  has  become 
a  favorite. 


MISS    FLORENCE    E.    TURNER. 

One  of  the  picture-play  artists 
who  "will  never  be  forgotten  is 
'Miss  Florence  E.  Turner,  for  she 
(has  won  a  permanent  place  in 
the  affections  of  the  picture  pub- 
lic. Beautiful,  graceful,  versatile, 
sympathetic,  she  adopts  her  mar- 
velous talents  equally  well  to 
every  part  assigned  to  her,  and 
she  has  taken  rank  among  the 
foremost  players  of  the  world. 
This  is  not  surprising,  however, 
when  it  is  remembered  that  she 
began  her  public  career  on  the 
stage  at  the  age  of  three. 


C  CLB241064 


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C)he  QQotion 

Qicture   @tory 

Magazine 


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I 


(Copyright,  1911) 

>00< 


I 


I 


CONTENTS 


MARCH,    1911 


Vol.  I.     No.  2 


Price 


FIFTEEN    CENTS    THE    COPY 
ONE  DOLLAR  FIFTY  THE  YEAR 


L 


PERSONALITIES   OF  THE   PICTURE   PLAYERS: 

Miss  Lottie   Briscoe    i 

Maurice  Costello    2 

Miss   Florence   Lawrence    , 3 

Miss  Alice  Joyce    4 

Charles  Kent   5 

Miss  Florence  Turner    6 

Miss  Clara  Williams    57 

NOTABLE  SCENES  FROM  THE  PHOTOPLAYS: 

Moliere    Dining   with    Louis    XIV 7 

Napoleon  Parting  with  Josephine   8 

Elaine    in    Picture    58 

The   Buccaneers    70 

The   Conspiracy   Pontiac    72 

PICTURE  STORIES: 

A  Dixie  Mother,  by  Louis  Reeve  Harrison 11 

Mike   the   Housemaid,  by  James   Blair 17 

My  Prairie  Flower,  by  Epes  W.  Sargent 27 

Abraham   Lincoln's   Clemency,  by  Mary  R.   Martin 41 

The  Big  Scoop,  by  James  Bartlett 47 

Pals,  by  J.  T.   Maines   52 

A  Cowboy's  Vindication,  by  Constance  Hall 59 

The  Perversity  of  Fate,  by  E.  W.  Sargent 63 

Love's  Awakening,  by  "Milo"    73 

Herod  and  the  Newborn  King,  by  Montanye   Perry 77 

The  Golden  Supper,  by  E.  L.   Martin 87 

A  Republican  Marriage,  by  Roy  Mason 93 

An  American   Count,  by   Marie.  L.  Rask 105 

SPECIAL  ARTICLES  : 

Wanted  to   See   Miss   Irwin    21 

The  City  of   Roys,  illustrated    23 

Birds  and  Birdmen,  illustrated,  by  J.  Stuart  Bla.  Icton 37 

Vitalizing  the  Teaching  of   History    46 

The  Wizard  of  Sound  and  Sight   (Thomas  A.  Edison) 69 

The  World  Before  Your  Eyes,  by  Prof.  Frederick  Starr 71 

Stage   Fright   in   Pictures 85 

The   Picture   Play   as   an    Educator 92 

POEMS: 

From  the  Dark  to  the  Dark,  by  H.  M.  C 16 

.     At  a  Motion  Picture  Show,  by  Hunter  MacCulloch 10 

EDITORIAL: 

Editorials    1 14 

Musings  of  a   Photoplay  Philosopher    116 

Editorials  by  our  Readers H9 


i 


At  a  Motion  Picture  Show 


By  Hunter  HacCulloch 


A  ghostly  seance  this,  from  first  to  last, 
Materializing  thus  the  buried  past. 

Device  so  simple,  yet  with  wonder  rife: 
Into  a  picture  breathe  the  breath  of  life; 
The  living  present  seize  and  fix  for  aye 
The  unconsidered  doings  of  the  day; 
Create  anew  the  vanished  past  at  will, 
See   all   its   fleeting   features   fleeting    still. 
Not  memory,  graved  in  shallow  lines  or  deep, 
Whereby  some  portion  of  the  past  we  keep; 
But  this  most  startling  vision,  born  of  art, 
That  leaps  to  life  complete  in  every  part. 

These  minutes  made  immortal  bring  the  thought 
Of  some  transcendent  'graph  wherein  is  caught 
Thoughts,  words  and  deeds  thruout  this  life-long 

strife — 
A  threefold  moving  picture  of  our  life. 

Ah!     Paris  next.     Three  thousand  miles  away: 
I  saw  it  just  a  year  ago  to-day. 
The  "Place  de  Concord" — yes,  I  know  the  place; 
'Twas  there  one  day  I  came  within  an  ace — 
Hello!     The  devil!     Well,  of  all  things!     Whew! 
Yes,  there  I  am;    an  unexpected  view. 
The  agent  de  police  I  did  not  choose 
As  escort — yet  I  could  not  well  refuse. 
Who  is  the  lady?     Ah!    you  have  me  there! 
See  how  I  struggle!     Can't  you  see  me  swear? 
And  Hugo's  gamins,  how  they  jeer  and  scoff! 
Ah!    there  I  go!    I'm  glad  he's  dragged  me  off! 

This  new  invention  can  be  made  to  lie 
Like  facts  and  figures  do,  and  not  half  try. 
Come,  let  us  go  to  lunch,  and  on  the  way 
I'll  tell  that  story — good  as  any  play. 


Note:  These  verses  were  written  in  1898  by  Hunter  MacCulloch,  who  died  March  20, 1905, 
and  they  are  now  published  for  the  first  time.— The  Editor. 


A  Dixie  Mother 


By  Louis  Reeve  Harrison 


A  fatal  day  near  the  end  of  the 
Civil  War  saw  General  Capel, 
desperately  wounded  and  sup- 
ported on  either  side  by  his  sons, 
seek  refuge  in  their  old  home.  The 
destructive  blast  of  battle,  which  had 
swept  that  region  and  withered  the 
face  of  nature  for  miles  around,  was 
not  spent.  A  shell  exploded  near  the 
fugitives  as  they  passed  an  uprooted 
tree,  and  an  old  family  servant  came 
forth  to  warn  them  that  they  were 
pursued  by  a  detachment  of  Union 
soldiers:  their  situation  was  almost  as 


desperate  as  their  irretrievable  for- 
tunes or  their  hopeless  cause.  Physi- 
cally ruined,  all  was  lost  save  honor. 

The  divinity  of  their  home,  a  Dixie 
mother,  was  comforting  her  frightened 
daughter  and  waiting  to  embrace  her 
husband  and  sons.  Virginia  Lewis 
Capel,  devoted  wife  and  fond  mother, 
stood  proudly  in  an  old  colonial  hall, 
whose  walls  were  hung  with  ancestral 
portraits  and  revolutionary  swords, 
waiting  and  hoping.  She  was  slight 
of  figure,  almost  as  delicate  looking  as 
her  daughter,  but  there  was  a  great 


THE    DIXIE    MOTHER    BOWED    HER     HEAD     IN    BITTERNESS    AND    YIELDED 
SWORD  AS   GRAVELY   AS   IF   SURRENDERING   AN  ARMY. 

11 


HER 


12 


TEE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


THE  MOTHER  SAW  AND  UNDERSTOOD. 


heart  throbbing  in  her  bosom.  She 
came  from  more  than  one  line  of  those 
indomitable  fighters  who  conquered 
savages  at  home  and  foes  from  abroad 
for  generations.  There  was  iron  in  her 
blood. 

When  the  men  entered  the  hall, 
Mrs.  Capel's  eyes  filled  with  tender 
sympathy  for  all,  but  she  took  the 
man  of  her  heart  in  her  arms.  She 
lavished  tenderness  on  him  while  mak- 
ing him  comfortable,  then  turned  to 
her  sons  as  if  the  deep  wells  of  her 
affections  were  inexhaustible. 

To  her  eldest  son,  Fielding,  about 
to  return  to  the  field  in  spite  of  a 
serious  wound  on  his  head,  she  said 
with  deep  emotion : 

"Oh,  but  I  am  proud  of  you!  Go  if 
you  must.  The  splendid  Boys  in  Grey 
are  contesting  every  inch  of  ground 
and  can  not  spare  you  from  the  ranks. 
Go  and  win  gloriously!  The  battle  is 
to  the  brave,  my  son,  not  to  the 
strong. ' ' 

She  turned  to  her  youngest  child, 
Merriweather,  fresh  from  a  military 


academy,  but  he  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully, indicated  that  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  enemy  and  turned 
away  completely  disheartened. 

She  laid  her  hand  in  gentle  protest 
on  his  arm ;  he  was  the  last  babe  to 
nestle  on  her  bosom,  but  he  only  sighed 
in  despair.  The  soft  light  faded  from 
her  eyes  as  she  took  a  sword  from  the 
wall,  pointed  to  the  portraits  of  her 
son's  ancestors,  and  said,  significantly: 
"Lest  we  forget!"  r 

"They  fought  in  a  better  cause,"  he 
muttered. 

The  mother's  eyes  flashed  and  the 
sword  gleamed  in  her  hand. 

"Go  fight!"  she  commanded,  giving 
him  the  sword  and  drawing  him  on. 
"Fight,  my  son!  Fight  till  the  last 
drop  of  blood  in  your  body  is  shed. 
Shall  our  men  stay  at  home  when 
others  are  in  the  field?  If  you  must 
fall,  let  it  be  with  your  face  to  the 
enemy.  Die  like  a  Southern  gentle- 
man." 

Fielding  had   already  gone,   deter- 
mined to  rejoin  his  regiment. 


A  DIXIE  MOTHER 


13 


Merriweather  biased  his  mother 
fondly  and  hurried  after  his  brother. 

A  detachment  of  Union  soldiers 
under  Lieutenant  Sears  was  approach- 
ing, as  the  Capels  attempted  to  escape, 
and  a  sergeant  raised  his  gun  and 
fired. 

Merriweather  Capel,  bravely  facing 
the  detachment  with  uplifted  sword, 
clasped  his  hand  to  his  breast  and 
fell,  mortally  wounded.  He  kissed 
his  sword,  wafted  the  kiss  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  darling  mother,  closed  his 
eyes  and  died  content,  "like  a  South- 
ern gentleman." 

>  The  shot  warned  those  in  the  hall 
of  impending  danger.  Mrs.  Capel 
roused  her  husband  and  managed  to 
help  him  to  a  hiding  place  behind  a 
secret  panel  door,  and  then  went  forth 
to  learn  the  fate  of  her  sons.  Field- 
ing had  escaped,  with  Lieutenant 
Sears  in  pursuit.  Merriweather  lay 
dead,  and  near  him  stood  a  Union 
sergeant  loading  his  gun. 

The  mother  saw  and  understood. 

Pale  and  tearless,  she  led  the  way 
to  the  hall, -while  the  Union  soldiers 
carried  in  Merriweather 's  body  and 
laid  it  on  the  sofa.  They  wasted  no 
time  on  sentiment.  Mothers'  sons 
were  falling  like  autumn  leaves.  The 
privates  went  to  search  the  house, 
while  the  sergeant  prodded  the  walls 
with  his  bayonet  in  quest  of  some 
secret  hiding  place. 

The  mother  watched  him  with  sullen 
hatred.  Her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
body  of  her  son  and  then  to  the 
weapons  on  the  wall. 

Suddenly  a  flame  lighted  in  her 
eyes. 

She  seized  a  sword  and  attacked  the 
sergeant  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tigress 
defending  her  cubs. 

She  was  driving  him  all  over  the 
hall,  beating  down  his  defense,  when 
Lieutenant  Sears  entered  and  parried 
her  weapon  with  his  own  sword. 

She  was  now  surrounded  by  blue- 
coats,  her  daughter  was  pleading  with 
her,  and  the  big  Lieutenant  reminded 
her  that  she  was  a  non-combatant. 

The  Dixie  mother  bowed  her  head 
in  bitterness  and  yielded  her  sword  as 
gravely  as  if  surrendering  an  army- 


corps.  She  conceded  the  force  of  his 
claim,  but  there  was  no  submission  01 
spirit.  When  her  son  Fielding  was 
brought  in,  a  prisoner  of  war,  the  little 
mother  shed  no  tears.  The  only 
betrayal  of  her  heart's  agony  came 
when  she  placed  one  hand  on  the  brow 
of  her  dead  boy,  the  other  on  the 
breast  of  the  survivor  and  said  to 
Sears : 

"God  has  taken  one.  Spare  me  the 
other!" 

The  Lieutenant  bowed  gravely  and 
assured  her  that  Fielding  should  be 
his  special  charge,  and  with  his  troops 
left  the  house. 

That  day  Sears  sought  his  sister, 
working  as  a  nurse  in  a  field  hospital, 
and  committed  Fielding  to  her  par- 
ticular care,  saying : 

' '  Blue  or  Grey,  we  are  simply  Ameri- 
can brothers  fighting  among  our- 
selves." 

When  General  Capel  came  to  view 
the  body  of  his  dead  son  and  learned 
that  the  other  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy,  his-  revengeful  passion  was 
fearful  to  behold.  The  grizzled  war- 
rior raised  his  sword  hand  in  fierce 
resentment  and  hi?  eyes  glowed  with 
settled  hatred  as  he  exclaimed : 

"May  Almighty  God  strike  me  dead 
when  I  bow  to  that  flag !" 

'  The  Dixie  mother  sank  down  by  her 
dead  boy  and  murmured : 

"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!" 
In  the  years  that  followed  the  close 
of  the  war,  the  wounds  on  nature's 
face  were  gradually  covered  by  green 
verdure,  but  the  scar  on  General 
Capel's  heart  never  healed.  His  son, 
Fielding,  had  married  the  lovely 
northern  girl,  who  had  nursed  him 
through  a  dangerous  illness,  and  had 
remained  in  the  North  to  repair  his 
fortunes.  The  brooding  General  would 
accept  no  aid  from  what  he  regarded 
as  a  traitorous  source,  and  his  gentle 
wife  asked  none.  She  bore  most  of  the 
after-burden  of  hardship  and  self- 
denial  with  the  same  mental  power  of 
endurance  that  had  inspired  her  pa- 
tient courage  under  affliction.  - 

One  day.  after  she  had  been  gather- 
ing Flowers  for  their  meagre  table,  the 
faithful  old  servant  and  her  daughter 


14 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


came  driving  up  in  the  venerable  fam- 
ily carriage  with  precious  news.  Field- 
ing and  his  wife,  with  their  baby, 
accompanied  by  her  brother,  Lieuten- 
ant Sears,  had  come  South  for  a  fam- 
ily reunion,  and  were  lingering  near 
until  Fielding  could  be  assured  of 
their  welcome.  Fielding  sent  the 
picture  of  his  baby  and  hoped  that  his 
father  would  give  it  the  kiss  of  peace. 

The  irreconcilable  old  General 
refused. 

In  the  baby's  hand  was  an  Ameri- 
can flag. 

That  was  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 

Mrs.  Capel  followed  her  husband 
into  the  house,  trying  to  pacify  him 
and  bring  about  some  arrangement  to 
unite  the  family  after  long  separation, 
but  he  was  inexorable.  Sure  that  he 
would  eventually  consent,  Mrs.  Capel 
sent  Cuffy  for  the  cradle  in  which  she 
had  last  rocked  Merriweather.  She 
continued  to  plead  Avith  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  nature,  her  daughter  joined 
her  voice  to  the  supplication,  and  even 
old  Cuffy,  when  he  had  returned  with 


the  cradle,  made  a  mute  appeal,  but 
General    Capel    pointed   to    the    sofa 
where   his  son's  body  had   lain   and 
said: 
' '  Have  you  forgotten  ? ' ' 

The  Dixie  mother,  crushed  at  last, 
sank  into  a  chair  by  the  cradle. 

Her  proud  spirit  was  broken. 

The  long  restraint  she  had  placed  on 
emotions  failed  her  when  it  seemed 
that  the  light  of  woman's  life  must 
be  denied  her,  and  her  mind  went 
wandering.  She  rocked  the  cradle 
softly  and  smiled.  She  was  thinking 
of  her  own  little  babe,  but  there  was  a 
strange  expression  in  her  eyes  that 
alarmed  General  Capel.  The  divinity 
of  his  home  had  given  the  best  of 
herself  to  every  one  within  reach  of 
her  influence.  Her  reward  was  a 
denial  that  threatened  mental  disso- 
lution if  not  death. 
' '  Come, ' '  he  said  to  the  others, ' '  there 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

All  three  hurried  out,  and  the  little 
mother  was  left  alone, 

Mrs.   Capel 's  smile  vanished.     She 


'MAY  GOD  ALMIGHTY  STRIKE  ME  DEAD  WHEN  I   BOW  TO  THAT   FLAG. 


A  DIXIE  MOTHER 


15 


"BLUE     OR     GRAY,     WE     ARE     SIMPLY     AMERICAN     BROTHERS     FIGHTING     AMONG 

OURSELVES." 


dimly  realized  that  lier  youngest  child 
was  dead.  She  rose  and  took  a  few 
flowers  from  the  table,  then  dropped 
them  one  by  one  in  the  cradle.  How 
sorrowful  to  part  with  children  !  The 
earth  is  dreary  without  them.  When 
their  light  is  gone,  the  purest  charm 
of  existence  is  taken  from  us.  But  we 
can  meet  them  again.  Once  more  we 
can  look  into  the  pure  eyes  of  love 
and  discern  the  infinite  purpose. 

The  little  mother  took  a  sword  from 
the  wall  and  tried  its  point. 

She  raised  her  arms  on  high  to  ask 
pardon  for  her  deed. 

It  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  meet 
the  child  in  Heaven. 

Then  there  came  a  heaven-sent  mes- 
sage. 

Lieutenant  Sears,  the  baby  in  his 
hands,  dashed  in  at  the  door  and 
placed  the  little  messenger  from  on 
high  in  the  Dixie  mother's  arms. 

The  others  followed  and  gathered 
round  the  source  of  their  happiness. 


Now  her  heart  glowed  with  the 
warmth  of  old  days. 

Gradually,  the  intelligence  returned, 
and  when  she  realized  her  full  happi- 
ness, the  Dixie  mother  turned  to  her 
husband  and  whispered: 

"Let  us  keep  our  feelings  sacred  in 
our  hearts  and  leave  no  heritage  of 
hate  to  our  children." 

General  Capel  was  no  man  of  half 
measures. 

He  took  the  baby  that  held  the  flag 
and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it  with  the 
old-time  chivalry  that  had  made  him 
the  Dixie  Mother's  best  beloved. 

It  was  a  kiss  for  peace  for  the  now 
generation. 

North  had  met  South  and  had  van- 
quished, but  his  son  had  won  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  North,  and  the  little  one, 
nestled  at  last  in  its  grandmother's 
arms,  was  promise  of  that  day  when 
sectional  prejudice  should  be  forgot- 
ten and  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  be- 
come a  memory. 


16 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 

S  Dixie  Mother 


THE    CAUSE    OF   ALL   THE    TROUBLE. 


FROM  THE  DARK  TO  THE  DARK 

As  moving  pictures  from  the  dark  emerging, 

Enkindled  by  a  spark ; 
So  life,  with  time  and  fate  together  urging, 

Leaps  forth  from  out  the  dark. 

As  pulse  by  pulse  the  moving  moment  passes, 

Across  the  scene  we  go, 
The  tottering  child,  the  leaping  lads  and  lassies, 

Old  age  with  footsteps  slow. 

Life's  moving  panorama  pauses  never, 

Until  we  meet  Death's  mark: 
And  then,  like  moving  pictures,  gone  forever, 

Life  leaps  into  the  dark ! 

Hunter  MacCulloch. 


MikeThe  Housemaid 

From  the  Scenario  of  William  H.  Kitchell 

___         Wherein  the  "INew"  Maid  hinds  ratal  to  His 
Plans  th<^  Attentions  r»f  Pr»|jreman   <^lanry 

It  had  been  a  week  or  more  since 
Dutch  Mike  and  Light-fingered 
Pete  had  made  a  haul,  and  then  it 
had  done  little  more  than  square  ac- 
counts Avith  Murphy,  up  at  the  cor- 
ner, for  various  and  sundry  ''growl- 
ers" that  had  been  had  on  credit,  and 
duly  recorded  on  the  accommodating 
slate. 

But  that  was  not  the  reason  Pete 


was  reading  the  "help  wanted"  ad- 
vertisements. Pete  had  read  all  the 
rest  of  the  paper,  and  had  turned  to 
these  for  want  of  better. 

"Girl  of  all  work;  one  competent  to 
take  care  of  the  silver,"  he  read. 
"Gee,  Mike!    I  wish  it  was  a  butler." 

"The  silver  can't  be  much  good  if 
they  don't  have  a  butler,"  suggested 
Mike,  consolingly. 


CLANCYS    ARRIVAL     INTERRUPTS    THE    TWO    THIEVES. 

17 


18 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


PETE'S    MISERY    IS    MADE    APPARENT    TO    HIS    PAL. 


"A  sugar  bowl  and  six  plated  spoons 
would  look  like  a  chest  of  silver  just 
now,"  declared  Pete,  plaintively. 
"Look  here,  what's  the  matter  with 
you  getting  the  job?  You've  got  the 
things  you  used  on  that  last  lay." 
"Sure  thing,"  assented  Mike.  "That 
won't  take  long!  Excuse  me  a  min- 
ute and  I'll  send  my  sister." 

It  required  but  a  few  minutes  for 
Mike  to  transform  himself  into  a  de- 
cidedly personable  servant  girl,  and 
an  hour  later  Mrs.  Carrington  w7as 
explaining  to  him  the  duties  expected 
of  her  maid.  Mike  noted  with  satis- 
faction that  the  silver  was  better  than 
he  had  dared  hope,  and  his  report  to 
Pete  was  more  than  satisfactory. 

But  Mike  narrowly  escaped  detec- 
tion, the  first  evening,  for  slipping 
out  of  the  back  gate  for  a  quiet  smoke, 
he  was  very  nearly  caught  by  Officer 
Clancy.  Mike  quickly  hid  the  ciga- 
rette, and  his  nervousness  was  as- 
cribed by  Clancy  to  the  dawn  of  love. 
He  liked  to  consider  himself  a  "lady 


killer,"  and  he  knew  by  experience 
w7ith  departed  maids  that  the  Car- 
rington larder  wTas  kept  well  stocked, 
and  that  Carrington  himself  was  a 
good  judge  of  whiskey,  and  did  not 
keep  too  close  an  eye  upon  the  de- 
canter. 

It  was  only  natural  that  Mike 
should  dislike  policemen,  and  when 
the  gallant  officer  began  his  love- 
making,  Mike  longed  to  introduce  his 
fist  to  Clancy's  jaw;  but  he  coaxed 
Clancy  along  and  took  satisfaction  in 
fooling  one  of  his  swrorn  enemies. 

The  chance  to  "take  care  of  the 
silver,"  according  to  the  ideas  of  Mike 
and  Pete,  soon  came,  and  the  Carring- 
tons  were  not  fairly  out  of  the  house 
before  Pete  slipped  into  the  hall,  and, 
after  supplying  Mike's  demand  for  a 
cigarette,  began  to  pack  the  loot  into 
his  bag. 

But  they  had  not  counted  on 
Clancy,  who  had  also  noted  the  de- 
parture of  the  Carringtons.  The  task 
was  not  fairly  begun  before  his  club 


MIKE  TEE  HOUSEMAID 


19 


beat  a  lively  tattoo  upon  the  back 
gate,  startling  Mike  and  sending 
Pete  into  a  panic  of  fear. 

Dashing  into  the  front  hall  and  up 
the  stairs,  he  found  a  safe  conceal- 
ment in  the  curtained  shower  bath, 
and  Mike  made  everything  safe  by 
tying  the  cord  securely  about  the  rub- 
ber cloth ;  then,  with  fair  composure, 
he  went  to  admit  Clancy. 
"Sure  it's  a  bite  and  a  wee  drink 
yer  have  for  yer  Clancy,"  he  coaxed, 
as  he  followed  M ike  into  the  kitchen ; 
' '  an '  since  the  folks  are  away,  it 's 
in  the  dining  room  we  '11  eat  in  proper 
style." 

He  led  the  way  as  he  spoke,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  Mike  to  do  but 
meekly  follow,  tho  at  every  step  he 
mentally  devised  fresh  torments  to 
which  he  consigned  the  policeman. 

A  cake  and  the  decanter  satisfied 
Clancy,  tho  now  and  then  he  varied 
the  fare  by  cracking  nuts  on  the  ma- 
hogany table  with  the  butt  of  his  re- 
volver, and,  with  cv?ry  stroke  of  the 


weapon,  Mike  more  and  more  wished 
that  it  was  the  Clancy  skull  that  was 
being  cracked. 

With  the  quieting  of  the  house, 
Pete  stirred  to  activity.  Now,  it  so 
happened  that  in  tying  up  the  rubber 
cloth  in  which  Pete  was  concealed, 
.Mike  had  tied  Pete's  hands  to  his 
side;  and,  in  his  endeavors  to  free 
himself,  Pete  accidentally  turned  on 
the  cold  water  of  the  shower  bath, 
and  the  chill  flood  descended.  Soon 
the  tub  was  full  to  overflowing,  and 
the  icy  stream  flowed  upon  the  floor. 
The  door  fitted  too  tightly  to  permit 
a  free  passage  of  the  water,  and  soon 
the  bathroom  was  afloat. 

Pete  writhed  and  struggled,  now 
cursing,  now  coughing,  but  never 
ceasing  his  efforts  to  free  himself. 
The  water  soaked  thru  the  tiles, 
and  the  steady  drip-drip  of  water  on 
the  table  below  soon  attracted 
Clancy's  attention  to  the  trouble 
above. 
"Sure,  the  water  do  be  comin'  from 


THE    CARRINGTONS    ARE    ASTONISHED    AT    THE    INDOOR    SHOWER. 


20 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


th'  bathroom,  Nora,  darlin',"  he 
murmured.  "  I  '11  be  after  runnin '  up 
and  shuttin'  it  off." 

"I'll  go,"  Mike  interrupted.  "It 
will  need  mopping  up." 

"I'll  come  and  help,"  volunteered 
Clancy.  "It's  not  Pat  Clancy  who'll 
let  them  little  hands  do  all  th'  hard 
work. ' ' 

"You'll  not,"  declared  Mike,  thrust- 
ing him  back  into  the  seat  with  un- 
necessary force.  "I'll  have  no  man 
messing  things  up.  You  stay  here 
and  finish  the  decanter." 

"I'll  come,"  insisted  the  stubborn 
Clancy.  "  I  '11  follow  me  darlin '  Nora 
to  th'  ends  av  th'  earth." 

"You'll  not,"  said  Mike,  wondering 
what  could  have  happened  to  Pete. 
I'll  go  and  you'll  stay  right  here." 

"I'll  do  no  such What's  that?" 

Mike  shared  Clancy's  dismay.  It 
was  the  master  and  mistress  unex- 
pectedly returned,  and  there  was  Pete 
tied  up  in  the  shower  bath ! 

"You  get  out  the  back  way  before 
they  see  you  and  report  you  to  the 
Captain,"  ordered  Mike,  as  he  started 
on  a  run  for  the  second  floor. 

Clancy  was  too  startled  to  follow 


MIKE    IS    DISCOVERED. 


the  advice,  and  he  blindly  pursued 
Mike  up  the  stairs.  To  throw  him  off, 
Mike  bolted  into  a  bedroom,  but 
Clancy  was  too  close  to  be  shaken, 
and  he  thrust  his  way  into  the  room 
in  spite  of  Mike's  endeavors. 

"Hide  me,"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "The 
Sarge  told  me  last  time  that  I'd  be 
broken  th'  next  time  they  found  me 
off  post." 

In  his  desperation  he  threw  his 
arm  about  Mike's  neck  in  eloquent 
appeal,  and  his  red  thatch-like  hair 
nearly  rose  erect,  while  Mike's  glossy 
wig  slipped  from  his  head  and  hung 
heavv  in  Clancv's  hand. 

"  Ha !  '  Dutch  Mike  ! '  "  gasped 
Clancy.  "It's  you,  is  it,  up  to  your 
tricks  again?" 

Mike 's  only  answer  was  to  bolt  from 
the  room  and  into  the  bathroom,  where 
Pete  had  just  succeeded  in  freeing 
himself.  At  the  sight  of  Clancy  he 
sought  to  climb  thru  the  window,  but 
it  was  too  small,  or  Pete  was  too 
large,  and  the  bedraggled  burglar  was 
yanked  back  into  the  room  only  to 
splash  again  into  the  tub. 

There  is  no  use  in  fighting  the  po- 
lice. It  only  means  a  clubbing,  and 
Mike  and  Pete,  realizing  that  the 
game  was  up,  consented  to  go  quietly, 
and  Clancy  proudly  led  them  down 
the  stairs.  He  had  counted  on  help 
from  Carrington,  but  there  was  more 
than  that,  ior  the  disorder  in  the 
dining  room,  the  water  dripping  from 
the  ceiling  and  the  noise  upstairs  had 
sent  Carrington  to  the  'phone  to  call 
the  police,  and  the  reserves  were 
there  to  observe  Clancy's  triumph. 

' '  I  saw  that  there  was  something 
up,"  explained  Clancy,  with  a  warn- 
ing look  at  Mike.  "Th'  back  door 
was  open  and  in  I  came.  'Twas  a 
desp'rit  fight,  and  I  lost  me  gun,  but 
I  bagged    'em,   Sarge." 

With  proper  escort  the  twain  were 
marched  off  to  the  station  house, 
while  Clancy  lingered  to  permit 
Carrington  to  slip  a  note  into  the 
hand  thrust  ostentatious!}'  behind  his 
back. 

' '  Sure  it  was  a  lucky  escape, ' '  mused 


MIKE  THE  HOUSEMAID 


21 


Clancy,  as  he  trudged  toward  the  sta- 
tion, "an'  them  fellers  won't  tell; 
hut  it's  a  pity  Nora  is  Mike  or  Mike 
wasn't  Nora.    Sure  she — I  mean  he — 


was  a  fine  figure  of  a  gurl.  It  was 
Mrs.  Clancy  it  was  after  making  her 
[  was — and  she— I  mean  he — is  Dutch 
Mike! — a  curse  on  the  pair  of  'em." 


CLANCY   PLAYS  A   CLUB   AGAINST  A   PAIR   OF   KNAVES   AND   TAKES   THE   TRICK. 


Arthur  Ilotalling  dates  his  picture 
career  back  to  the  first  machines.  He 
had  charge  of  the  first  exhibition  of 
motion  pictures  which  was  given  at 
Atlantic  City  some  sixteen  years 
ago. 

One  of  the  star  pictures  of  that  day 
was  one  of  John  C.  Rice  and  Miss  May 
Irwin,  in  their  famous  kissing  scene 
from  The  Widow  Jones. 

After  the  performance  one  evening 
a  woman  approached  the  manager 
with  the  request  that  her  card  be  sent 
back  to  Miss   Irwin.     Mr.   Hotalling 


explained  that  the  actress  was  in  New 
York. 

"I  know  better,"  was  the  indignant 
response.  "I  have  known  her  for 
years  and  I  saw  her  on  the  stage  just 
a  moment  ago.  Please  take  my  card 
or  when  I  do  see  Miss  Irwin  at  her 
hotel  I  shall  report  your  refusal." 

Vainly  he  tried  to  explain  that  the 
photographs  had  been  made  in  New 
York,  and  that  only  the  pictured  pre- 
sentment was  shown,  but  she  would 
not  have  it  so,  and  the  following  morn- 
ing's mail  brought  a  note  for  Miss  Ir- 
win that  fairly  sizzled  with  wrath. 


JUDGE  WILLIS  BROWN,  THE  CREATOR  OF  THE  CITY  OF  BOYS  AT  CHARLEVOIX,  MICH. 


The  City  of  Boys 


A  fascinating  sketch  of  the  city  founded  by  Judge  Willis  Brown 
to  make  bad  boys  into  good  citizens 


A  SCHOOL  OF  CITIZENSHIP  ! 
That  sounds  better  than  the 
reform  school,  doesn't  it?  And 
it  is  better,  for  it  is  conceded 
that  reform  schools  often  serve  to 
make  good  boys  bad  and  bad  boys 
worse,  particularly  when  they  are 
"schools  of  crime  where  the  older 
offenders  instruct  the  lesser  delin- 
quents in  the  art  of  law  breaking." 
At  Boy  City  these  same  "kiddies" 
are  taught  to  make  and  to  enforce 
laws — not  to  break  them.  They  are 
taught  all  the  duties  of  citizenship 
and  when  they  leave  Boyville  for  the 
world  outside  they  are  better  in  mind, 
body  and  morals,  for  their  residence 
within  the  charmed  limits  of  the  play 
city.  That  is  the  idea  of  Judge  Willis 
Brown,  of  the  Juvenile  Court  of  Chi- 
cago, and  Boy  City  is  famous  among 
penologists  the  world  over.  It  is  a 
manufactory  of  manhood  that  is  doing 
more  good  for  the  youth  of  Chicago 
than  can  be  realized  without  intimate 
association  with  Boy  City  and  its 
products. 

The  City  of  Boys  is  not  an  institu- 
tion of  instruction  but  of  education 
in  its  broadest  meaning;  the  educa- 
tion which  comes  from  experience.  It 
is  a  system  of  educational  recreation. 
The  City  of  Boys  emphasizes  the  real 
elements  which  make  up  a  boy's 
desires — fun  and  opportunity  actu- 
ally to  do  things.  The  instruction  and 
discipline  which  obtains  in  a  boy's 
life  in  home,  school  and  church; 
every  activity  in  which  he  enters,  is 
under  the  direction  of  adults  who 
are  in  authority.     This  discipline  is 


necessary  and  its  purpose  is  to  grow 
a  man  of  character.  Its  fundamental 
is  that  the  growing  boy  needs  mould- 
ing in  the  right  way  so  that  in  after 
years  when  manhood  is  the  fulfilment 
of  boyhood,  there  shall  be  fixed  habits 
of  honor  and  virtue. 

Notwithstanding  this  care  and 
instruction  given  boys,  many  of  them 
go  wrong.  Many  violate  laws  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent.  When  a  boy 
becomes  incorrigible,  disobedient,  will- 
ful; when  he  smokes  cigarettes,  stays 
out  nights,  runs  away  to  adjoining 
cities  and  often  to  far  distant  places, 
two  deductions  are  always  made..  One 
is  that  the  boy  is  naturally  bad  and 
needs  severe  punishment,  the  other  is 
that  the  boy  has  not  had  proper  con- 
trol and  instruction.  This  latter  reason 
may  well  be  responsible  for  many  of 
the  boys  of  bad  homes  and  vicious 
environment  doing  unseemly  acts,  on 
the  theory  that  they  know  no  better. 
that  they  are  but  following  the 
example  set  before  them  and  that  they 
are  misunderstood.  The  harsh  treat- 
ment given  these  boys  by  the  criminal 
courts  made  necessary  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Juvenile  Courts. 

As  a  judge  of  the  Juvenile  Court, 
Judge  Brown  found  a  great  many 
boys  of  good  homes  coming  before  it. 
These  boys  having  had  good  examples, 
loving  parents  and  religious  instruc- 
tion and  advantages  not  enjoyed  by 
the  poorer  boys,  nevertheless  com- 
mitted acts  fully  as  vicious  as  these 
so-called  unfortunate  boys.  Then 
it  was  claimed  that  these  boys 
were  simply  "naturally"  bad,  and,  in 


23 


THREE     CHARACTERISTIC     SCENES    IN     BOY     CITY. 


THE  CITY  OF  BOYS 


25 


spite  of  their  good  homes,  they  chose 
to  be  tough  and  unruly.  Out  of  these 
situations  Judge  Brown  came  to  the 
understanding  that  no  normal  boy 
desires  to  do  the  wrong  thing.  That 
all  boys,  however  they  might  be 
instructed,  were  following  the  adult 
life  of  the  community  in  which  they 
lived.  Not  because  those  they  fol- 
lowed were  adults,  but  because  adults 
made  public  sentiment,  and  boys  were 
but  a  part  of  the  community  life,  and 
therefore  attempted  to  act  their  part. 
A  majority  of  the  boys  coming  before 
Judge  Brown  in  the  Juvenile  Court 
commenced  their  delinquent  habits  as 
they  were  made  a  part  of  society: 
First,  the  gang  of  boys  with  a  leader, 
then  the  larger  group,  until,  uncon- 
sciously the  boys  were  doing  things 
contrary  to  the  desire  of  parents  and 
teachers,  but  in  harmony  with  the 
accepted  policies  and  sentiment  of  the 
boyhood  of  the  community,  the  Boy 
City  in  the  regular  city  in  which  they 
lived. 

The  purpose  was  to  organize  the 
boys  of  a  community  into  a  regular 
Boy  City,  where  they  could  be  recog- 
nized as  a  real  part  of  the  city  life, 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  men ; 
where  it  was  recognized  that  boys  had 
certain  rights  as  well  as  responsi- 
bilities, and  therefore  it  is  deemed  not 
fair  to  measure  the  acts  of  any  boy, 
whether  those  acts  be  good  or  bad,  by 
the  standard  with  which  we  measure 
the  acts  of  men.  In  this  plan  there 
is  still  the  unconscious  influence  of  the 
adult  community  and  in  the  working 
out  of  the  City  of  Boys  to  its  real 
success,  a  National  City  of  Boys  at 
Charlevoix.  Mich.,  was  established  by 
Judge  Brown.  It  comprises  100 
acres,  where,  every  summer,  boys  live 
in  a  real  City  of  Boys.  No  adults 
other  than  those  who  accompany 
groups  of  boys  to  live  in  the  city. 

This  "City  of  Boys"  idea  says  to 
every  boy:  "You  know  what  is  square. 
You  have  been  taught  by  mother  and 
father,  you  know  what  is  their  desire 
for  you  to  do.  You  know  what 
religious  belief  they  wish  you  to  follow 
and  you  know  what  is  right  for  you 
to    do.      In    the    Public    School    vou 


understand  the  purpose  of  study  and 
instruction.  Now  we  give  you  an 
opportunity  to  carry  out  all  you  know 
in  a  city  of  your  own  where  no  man 
or  woman  rules.  Run  your  own  busi- 
ness. Have  your  bank,  conduct  your 
daily  paper,  eat  when  you  want  and 
sleep  when  you  desire.  Do  whatever 
you  please,  enter  politics  or  business, 
play  all  the  time  if  you  can  afford  it, 
or  work,  but  do  everything  on  the 
square. ' ' 

The  City  of  Boys  is  not  a  reforma- 
tory or  a  scheme  of  moral  instruction. 
If  a  boy  cannot  play  square  he  is  sent 
home,  and  denied  citizenship,  not  by 
adults,  but  by  the  boys  themselves.  A 
cheat,  in  any  way,  loses  his  citizen- 
ship. The  City  is  for  clean  boys,  who 
must  meet  responsibilities,  who  must 
meet  temptations,  who  must  assume 
responsibilities,  who  must  grow  into 
citizenship,  and  it  is  a  place  where  he 
can  test  himself,  where  he  can  apphr 
the  instruction  and  example  he  has 
received  and  where  he  can  find  him- 
self at  a  period  of  life  where  habits 
are  not  fixed  and  where  changes  can 
be  made  without  the  overturring  of  a 
whole  life  as  hj  the  case  with  men.  It 
is  a  federation  of  groups  of  boys  from 
various  cities  of  the  country  who  camp 
for  the  summer  in  one  place.  Each 
camp  becomes  a  city  ward,  with  its 
councilmen,  who  thus  become  a  part 
of  the  city  administration.  It  is  pre- 
ventive work,  and  educational  to  the 
highest  degree. 

On  the  fun  side,  which  largely  con- 
trols a  boy,  the  fun  is  at  its  extreme 
tension  here.  The  things  a  boy  enters 
on  the  fun  side  are  real.  The  circus 
is  a  real  circus,  with  real  people  pay- 
ing real  money  to  witness  the  mar- 
velous feats  of  the  show.  Their  games 
are  under  the  direction  of  experts,  and 
they  have  their  National  League  play- 
ing by  wards.  This  City  of  Boys  is  a 
living  illustration  to  the  boy  of  all  the 
fun  he  ever  dreamed  of  having,  and 
the  biggest  fun  any  boy  can  have, 
because  there  is  eliminated  entirely 
the  undesirable  methods  attending  so 
much  of  the  so-called  fun  boys  have 
in  the  adult-city  life,  which  fun  makes 
necessary    the    juvenile    court. 


Hv  Prairie  riowerl 


An  exchange  of  Identities   in  which  it  is  Proven  that  me 
Master  is  the  Better  nan 


"  I  EXKIXS  !  Mr.  Eobert  back  yet?" 
J  Henry  Ford's  voice  was  sharp 
and  quick;  the  voice  of  a  man  ac- 
customed to  command  others,  but  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  eagerness  in  the 
masterful  tones. 

"Not  yet,  sir/**  came  the  respectful 
response.  "He  said  as  how  he  was 
likely  to  be  a  little  late,  sir." 

"Little  late,"  Ford  glanced  at  the 
clock.  It  had  been  late  when  they  left 
the  opera  and  they  had  dropped  the 
Brandons  at  their  home,  a  full  half 
mile  out  of  the  way.  "Jane,  if  that 
boy  comes  home  in  the  same  condition 
he  was  in  last  night,  I'm  going  to  send 
him  away." 

"Boys  will  be  boys,**  she  reminded. 
"There  was  a  time  when  you  sowed 
wild  oats,  Henry." 

"I  know  I  did,"  was  the  unexpect- 
edly frank  response,  "but  if  I  had 
sown  as  many  as  Bob,  I'd  be  cutting 
hay  vet.  It's  for  the  bov*s  own  good, 
Jane"." 

He  turned  as  there  came  from  the 
hall  the  smothered  voice  of  expostula- 
tion, a  thick  protest  and  an  opera  hat 
rolled  into  the  room,  followed  by  Rob- 
ert Ford  who  the  moment  before  had 
thrown  the  hat  at  the  expostulating 
Jenkins. 

"I  thought  so !"  cried  the  father. 
"Bob,  you've  bad  your  last  chance.  I 
told  you  last  night  that  if  you  ever 
came  home  in  that  condition  again  I 
would  send  you  West.  I'm  going  to 
do  it,  sir,  to-night — now  !" 

Bob  waived  his  hand  in  an  amiable 
gesture  of  acquiescence  and  fell  into  a 


convenient  chair,  promptly  going  to 
sleep.  He  was  oblivious  alike  to  the 
weeping  mother  and  his  angry  father. 
It  had  been  something  more  than  a 
year  since  the  threat  of  being  sent  to  a 
ranch  had  alarmed  him.  #He  had  heard 
the  cry  of  "Wolf  !"  too  often  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  am  saying?"' 
demanded  Ford.  "I  tell  you  that  I 
shall  send  you  West  unless  you  prom- 
ise to  mend  your  ways." 

"All  ri',"  assented  Bob.  "Tell  me 
res'  in  morriin'.     Goo'  night." 

Ford  straightened  up  hopelessly. 
His  wife  plucked  at  his  arm  timidly. 

"He's  a  dear  good  boy,  Henry,"  she 
pleaded.  "It  is  merely  that  he  has  bad 
associates.  There  is  no  real  harm  in 
him." 

"Precisely  why  he  is  worth  while 
saving,"  explained  Ford  as  he  shook 
her  off  with  gentle  roughness.  "Jen- 
kins !" 

He  raised  his  voice  to  a  shout,  but 
Jenkins  appeared  with  a  promptness 
that  argued  that  the  valet  had  been 
listening  outside  the  door.  Silently 
the  man  received  instructions  to  pack 
Bob's  grip  and  see  that  he  caught  the 
morning  train,  and  after  completing 
the  task  somewhat  reluctantly,  he 
touched  his  forehead  in  acknowledg- 
ment and  turned  to  the  sleeping  lad. 

Bob  responded  to  his  persuasion,  for 
more  than  once  Jenkins  had  let  him 
into  the  house  without  disturbing  the 
old  gentleman,  and  had  lied  loyally 
afterward  as  to  Bob's  condition  at  his 
homecoming.     Stupidly  Bob  made  his 


27 


28 


THE  MOV IN G  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


'ALL   RI  .    TELL    ME   THE    RES     IN   THE    MORNIN  . 


exit,  leaving  his  father  declaiming  vio- 
lently to  hide  his  own  sudden  flood  of 
tenderness. 

It  was  several  days  later  that  Bob 
and  the  faithful  Jenkins  arrived  at 
Midland,  the  closest  railroad  station  to 
Star  Ranch,  where  Henry  Jones  raised 
the  cattle  whose  flanks  bore  the  Lone 
Star  of  the  State.  Jones  and  Ford  had 
been  college  chums,  had  entered  the 
same  fraternities,  and  each,  in  his  way, 
had  been  successful. 

Jones  had  been  advised  by  telegram 
of  Bob's  coming  but  the  wire  had 
mentioned  no  train,  and  the  travelers 
had  made  better  time  than  was  expect- 
ed. For  his  old  chum's  sake  he  was 
glad  to  take  Bob  in,  but  he  did  not 
like  the  idea  of  having  a  roystering 
young  chap  from  the  city  where  his 
pretty  and  susceptible  daughter,  Flora, 
might  fall  in  love  with  him. 

It  was  well  after  train  time  when  his 
foreman  arrived  -in  town  for  the  mail, 


and  dropped  into  the  hotel  to  ask  the 
clerk  to  send  Bob  on  to  the  ranch  on 
his  arrival,  and  in  that  interval  Bob 
had  been  inspired  with  an  idea. 

The  idea  came  from  Bob's  knowl- 
edge that  Jenkins  carried  a  letter  to 
Jones  from  the  elder  Ford.  It  was 
unsealed  and  Bob  grinned  as  he  read  it 
thru.  It  was  not  a  long  letter  but 
right  to  the  point : 

New  York.  May  7,  1910. 
My  dear  Harry. — ■ 

My  son,  Eobert,  has  been  on  a  spree 
and  needs  bracing  up.  Take  care  of 
him  for  me  and  give  him  plenty  of 
hard  work.  Jenkins,  his  valet,  who 
hands  you  this,  will  assist  you  in  keep- 
ing him  straight.  May  come  out  later 
myself. 

Your  old  schoolmate, 

Henry  Ford. 
« 
"Jenkins  !"  Bob's  tone  was  of  judi- 
cial severity.     "I   don't  like  this  idea 
of  hard  work.     I  think  that  we'll  just 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


".) 


swap  identities  for  a  while.  You  will 
do  the  hard  work,  Jenkins,  and  I'll 
have  the  harder  work  of  assisting  in 
keeping  you  straight." 

"But  the  master — "  began  Jenkins 
faintly.     "He  said,  sir — " 

"Never  mind  what  he  said."*  or- 
dered Bob  sternly.  "It's  a  bad  thing 
for  a  servant  to  repeat  bits  of  gossip 
that  he  overhears.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  it.  I'm  saying  that  you  are  to  be 
Robert  Ford  for  a  time,  and  you  want 
to  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  disgrace 
the  honored  name  you  bear,  and  that 
you  work  hard  to  get  all  that  alcohol 
out  of  your  system.     You  hear  me?" 

The  habit  of  obedience  was  strong 
within  him,  and  Jenkins  meekly  an- 
swered "Yessir,"  and  wondered  miser- 
ably what  the  elder  Ford  would  say 
if  he  found  out.  He  was  still  receiving 
instructions  from  Bob  when  the  clerk 
entered  to  announce  that  a  man  had 
come  from  the  ranch  and  would  take 


them  back  with  him.  Jenkins  made  a 
dive  for  the  grips,  but  a  warning  kick 
from  Bob  when  the  others  had  their 
backs  turned,  reminded  him  that  he 
was  "Mr.  Ford"  now,  and,  rather  en- 
joying the  sensation,  he  led  the  way 
grandly  from  the  room. 

It  was  a  rough  ride  through  the  al- 
kali, and  both  master  and  man  were 
glad  when  the  inviting  green  of  the 
ranch  house  grove  came  into  view.  For 
a  moment  Bob  half  decided  to  resume 
his  own  identity,  when  he  caught  sight 
of  Flora  on  the  porch,  standing  beside 
her  parents ;  but  the  thought  of  the 
hard  labor  changed  his  mind  again,  and 
leaping  lightly  to  the  ground  he  turned 
to  assist  Jenkins  out. 

Instinctively  the  valet  turned  to  get 
the  grips,  but  a  low  growl  from  Bob 
reminded  him  of  his  new  estate,  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  greeting  the  dis- 
appointed Jones  and  the  wondering 
Flora.  A  tug  at  his  coat  reminded 
him,  and  in  a  careless  fashion  he  made 


A  TUG   AT   His  COAT  REMINDED   1I1M    OF   Mis   POSITION 


30 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


Bob  known  as  his  valet  and  Bob  was 
honest  enough  to  blush. 

Jones  called  one  of  the  men  to  help 
Jenkins  with  the  bags  and  dismissed 
him  from  his  thoughts.  He  was  wor- 
ried about  his  guest,  and  more  than 
ever  he  was  decided  that  it  would  be 
well  to  keep  him  away  from  Flora  as 
much  as  possible.  A  quiet  glance  from 
his  wife  confirmed  this  opinion,  and  as 
her  mother  led  Flora  into  the  house 
Jones  suggested  to  Jenkins  that  they 
take  a  look  over  the  ranch  buildings. 

Bob  was  surprised  to  find  that  ranch 
houses  are  as  well  furnished  as  places 
"back  east/'  for  the  room  into  which 
he  was  led  was  as  comfortable,  tho  not 
quite  as  elegant,  as  his  own  apartments 
in  New  York.  He  looked  longingly  at 
the  soft  bed  and  the  lounging  chair 
close  to  the  shaded  lamp,  but  his  escort 
brought  him  rudely  back  to  earth. 

"Dump  your  boss'  grip  and  come 
along,"  he  suggested.  "I  got  to  get 
back  to  my  own  work.  You  can  come 
back  to  fix  him  up." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  stairs  and 
across  the  yard  to  the  low  bunk  house. 
Here  was  the  real  "roughing  it,"  and 
for  a  second  time  Bob's  heart  failed 
him,  as  he  glanced  at  the  tiers  of  bunks 
three  high,  and  was  told  that  as  a  new- 
comer he  would  have  to  sleep  in  one 
of  the  topmost  row. 

"I  have  to  be  in  the  house,"  he 
remonstrated ;  "Mr.  Ford  will  want  me 
early  in  the  morning." 

"He'll  get  you,"  was  the  unfeeling 
response.  "We  get  up  at  four  and  I 
guess  you  can  get  across  the  yard  be- 
fore he  gets  up.  We'll  see  you  don't 
oversleep." 

There  was  a  meaning  in  the  grin 
with  which  the  last  sally  was  greeted, 
and  as  one  of  the  men  threw  his  suit 
case  into  the  despised  bunk,  Bob  sank 
upon  the  edge  of  the  lower  one  with  a 
groan  of  dismay.  He  was  game,  but 
there  seemed  little  choice  between  the 
hard  work  for  Bob  Ford  and  the  hard 
bed  for  Jenkins.  He  was  sorry  he 
had  not  remained  Ford. 

The  feeling  was  emphasized  a  little 
later  when  Bob  went  back  to  the  house. 
The    Jones    family    were    just    sitting 


down  to  an  appetizing  supper;  and 
Jenkins,  cordial  with  a  manner  that 
would  have  been  a  laughable  imitation 
of  Bob's  own  air,  had  he  an  apprecia- 
tion of  humor  at  the  moment,  was 
making  himself  pleasant  to  all. 

"Everything  all  right,  Jenkins?"  he 
asked,  condescendingly,  as  Bob  touched 
his  hat.  "Better  get  your  supper,  my 
man.  I  shall  not  need  you  until  bed- 
time." 

He  nodded  to  indicate  that  the  in- 
terview was  over,  and  turned  to  Jones, 
who  indicated  that  he  was  to  sit  next 
Flora.  Unconsciously  Bob  reached  for 
a  chair,  to  Jones'  shocked  surprise; 
and  Jenkins,  mindful  of  the  kicks  he 
had  received,  let  his  face  broaden  into 
a  grin  that  changed  into  .a  look  of 
shocked  surprise  as  Jones  turned  ap- 
pealingly  to  him. 

"Jenkins,"  he  said  severely.  "I  am 
surprised  at  you.  Retire  immediately, 
and  remember,  my  man,  that  Texas  is 
the  same  as  New  York." 

Flora's  look  of  surprise  made  Bob 
wince,  and  as  he  turned  away  he  re- 
membered the  letter. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  with  the 
salute  he  had  copied  from  Jenkins.  "I 
was  'most  forgetting,  sir.  A  letter 
from  Mr.  Ford,  sir." 

He  handed  Jones  the  letter  and 
smiled  at  the  appeal  in  Jenkins'  eyes. 
He  watched,  as  Jones  read  the  brief 
letter ;  and  when  the  ranchman  had 
placed  it  in  his  pocket  he  enlarged 
upon  the  habits  of  the  supposed  Ford, 
and  the  necessity  for  making  him  work 
very  hard,  until  Jenkins  lost  his  appe- 
tite for  game  pie  and  the  other  tasty 
dishes,  and  pleaded  a  headache,  which 
only  served  to  confirm  Jones  in  his  de- 
cision to  "work  it  out  of  him"  in  the 
most  complete  fashion. 

Slipping  from  the  "big  house,"  Bob 
nought  the  lair  of  cookee  and,  attracted 
by  the  savory  odors,  found  to  his  sur- 
prise that  bacon  and  potatoes  are  de- 
cidedly tasty  to  a  hungry  man,  and  that 
good  coffee  from  a  tin  cup  is  good 
coffee  still. 

There  was  a  steady  stream  of  rough 
witticisms  directed  at  Bob,  but  he  took 
it  all  good-naturedly,  answered  in  kind, 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


31 


and  by  the  time  the  meal  was  over  he 
was  so  thoroly  in  their  good  graces  that 
Jim  Langdon  decided  that  he  should 
have  a  drink  from  his  flask  to  further 
the  cementation  of  friendship.  For  a 
moment  Bob  clutched  eagerly  at  the 
flask.  Beyond  the  "tapering  off" 
drinks  on  the  morning  of  his  departure, 
the  watchful  Jenkins  had  seen  that 
there  was  no  opportunity  to  obtain 
whiskey.  Now,  the  very  odor  of  the 
raw  liquid  fired  his  blood,  and  he 
greedily  raised  the  flask  to  his  lips. 

He  stopped  and  put  it  from  him. 
He  knew  what  the  result  would  be,  and 
he  could  picture  the  look  of  grieved 
surprise  in  Flora's  face  when  she  saw 
him  intoxicated. 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  he  said  simply, 
"but  it's  'bad  medicine'  for  me,  old 
man."' 

"You  mean  you're  too  good  for  this 
crowd  ?  You  don't  want  to  drink  with 
us  ?"  came  the  truculent  demand. 

"Not   at    all,"    pleaded   Bob.      "It's 


merely  that  whiskey  doesn't  agree  with 
me — or  agrees  with  me  too  well.  Have 
it  either  way." 

"You  take  a  drink !" 

Langdon  offered  the  bottle  with  one 
hand  and  in  the  other  he  presented  his 
revolver.  He  had  had  two  drinks, 
which  was  just  enough  to  stir  up 
trouble. 

"I  have  no  gun  and  I  wouldn't  use 
one  if  I  had,"  cried  Bob,  hotly.  "I  tell 
you  I  don't  want  to  drink  because  it's 
not  good  for  me  and  you  offer  to  shoot. 
I  fight  with  my  fists,  man  fashion.  If 
you  want  to  try  that  way  come  out- 
side." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk."  Bud  Hen- 
drie  sprang  to  Bob's  side  and  laid  an 
approving  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"You're  some  fighter,  Jim.  Make 
good." 

Nothing  loath,  Langdon  slipped  off 
holster  and  cartridge  belt,  and  let  them 
tie  the  boxing  gloves  on  his  hands. 
Bob  had  expected  bare  fists  and  was 


LANGDON  FELL  HEAVILY  TO  THE  GROUND. 


32 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


glad  that  it  was  to  be  with  gloves,  tho 
there  was  little  of  the  original  padding- 
left  in  the  gloves.  Bob  slipped  out  of 
his  coat  and  into  his  gloves,  and  the 
whole  crowd  adjourned  to  the  front  of 
the  cook  house  where  an  impromptu 
ring  was  quickly  formed. 

It  was  a  short  fight  but  a  good  one. 
Langdon  was  no  mean  adversary  in 
either  skill  or-  strength,  and  had  a 
slight  advantage  in  weight ;  but  Bob, 
in  his  better  moments,  was  something 
of  an  athlete,  and  knew  how  to  handle 
himself  well.  Indeed,  a  champion  mid- 
dleweight had  gained  a  fat  check  for 
teaching  Bob  the  secrets  of  his  knock- 
outs. Bob  sparred  to  hold  Langdon 
off,  and,  when  he  saw  his  chance,  be 
shot  over  a  blow  that  bad  earned  for 
its  inventor  a  belt  and  a  title,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  inevitable  vaudeville 
engagement. 

Langdon,  taken  off  his  guard,  fell 
heavily  and  took  the  count,  but  soon 
was  on  bis  feet  and  as  eager  as  the  rest 
to    shake    Bob's    band.      The    sudden 


change  in- the  temper  of  the  crowd  was 
a,  surprise  to  Bob,  and  with  entire 
frankness  he  explained  the  reason  of 
his  refusal,  and  pledged  his  friendship 
to  them  all.  He  was  now  a  full- 
Hedged  member  of  the  bunk  bouse,  and 
Langdon  even  offered  him  his  own 
lower  berth,  a  proffer  that  Bob  was  too 
generous  to  accept. 

He  spent  a  better  night  than  Jen- 
kins, who  tossed  restlessly  upon  the  soft 
mattress,  as  he  dreamed  that  he  had 
been  sent  to  herd  cows,  and  that  the 
fierce  animals  had  turned  on  him. 
Jenkins  had  the  city  man's  dislike  for 
animals  with  horns,  and  Jones  took  a 
pride  in  his  little  herd  of  Longhorns 
as  a  breed  that  was  fast  disappearing 
and  soon  to  be  almost  as  rare  as  the 
buffalo. 

lie  woke  to  find  bis  master  standing 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  and  regarding 
bis  slumbers  with  amusement. 

"It's  about  time  you  got  up,  Jen- 
kins," lie  said  pleasantly.  "I've  been 
up    about    two    hours    and    have    had 


A  STRANGE  AND  FRIGHTENED  COWBOY. 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


33 


SEE,   HE   IS   FALLING  ! 


breakfast.  Get  into  these  togs.  They 
are  your — er — working  clothes,  you 
know." 

Jenkins  regarded  with  marked  dis- 
favor the  rough  clothing,  the  chaps  and 
spurs  that  told  of  work  on  horseback; 
but  he  knew  better  than  to  disobey, 
and  rose  with  a  groan  as  Jones  entered 
to -see  if  his  guest  lacked  for  anything. 

With  Flora  not  present,  Bob  was 
able  to  embroider  the  tale  of  the  sup- 
posed Fords'  misbehavior,  and  to  dilate 
upon  the  father's  eagerness  that  the 
son  would  work  hard. 

"PIe*s  right/5  assented  Jones  heart- 
ily. "I'll  see  to  it  that  your  master 
has  plenty  of  exercise.  You  won't 
know  him  in  three  months.  We'll 
build  out  that  flat  chest  and  put  some 
flesh  on  those  thin  arms.  You  leave 
him  to  me." 

Jenkins  shivered  at  the  suggestion 
contained  in  the  last  words,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it;  and.  looking  very 
little  like  a  cowboy,  lie  was  led  to 
breakfast  and  then  to  the  sacrifice.    The 


little  knot  of  cowboys  were  waiting  for 
him  in  front  of  the  ranch  house,  and 
Bob  could  scarcely  restrain  his  laugh- 
ter when  lie  assisted  his  frightened 
valet  into  the  saddle.  Jones  had  picked 
out  a  horse  safe  enough  but  scarcely 
to  be  called  gentle  and  Jenkins  bounced 
about  in  the  saddle  disgracefully  as 
with  a  whoop  the  cowboys  surrounded 
him  and   raced  oil'. 

Bob  lingered  for  a  moment  talking 
to  Jones,  as  Flora  emerged  from  the 
house  in  her  riding  habit,  and  a  man 
brought  up  her  pony.  She  bowed  cold- 
ly in  response  to  Bob's  deferential  sa- 
lute, and  for  a  moment  he  felt  hurt, 
until  he  could  realize  that  to  her  he 
was  only  a  servant. 

She  was  scarcely  in  (he  saddle  when 
her  mount  shied,  and  Bob.  alert  to  her 
slightest  movement,  sprang  to  the 
horse's  head.  This  time  a  smile  was 
his  reward  as  she  cantered  off. 

He  looked  after  her  longingly,  and 
Jones,  who  found  the  imitation  valet 
more  to  his  liking  than  the  real  valet. 


34 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


suggested  that  he  might  like  to  take  a 
ride  himself.  Bob  eagerly  accepted  the 
invitation,  and  a  little  later  he  com- 
manded the  respect  of  the  cowboys  by 
not  "grabbing  leather/7  when  the  usu- 
ally quiet  horse  took  it  into  his  head 
to  do  a  little  pitching.  The  only  re- 
sult was  to  dislodge  a  sombrero  several 
sizes  too  small. 

Jones  offered  to  see  if  he  could  find 
a  larger  one,  and  with  an  impatient 
"All  right,"  Bob  tossed  the  hat  to  one 
of  the  men  and  headed  his  horse  after 
Flora.  Someone  called  after  him  but 
he  did  not  hear  what  they  said.  All 
that  was  important  was  that  Flora  was 
far  ahead. 

He  had  not  thought  it  possible  that 
the  sun  could  be  so  hot.  It  beat  cruelly 
upon  his  unprotected  head,  and  soon 
his  handkerchief  was  soaked  with  per- 
spiration. But  now  Flora  was  scarcely 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  and  Bob 
pressed  on,  tho  his  head  was  swim- 
ming, and  only  a  perfect  seat  enabled 
him  to  keep  in  the  saddle. 

The  girl,  unconscious  of  having  been 
followed,  turned  carelessly  as  she  heard 
the  beat  of  hoofs,  but  her  face  went 
white  as  she  saw  the  rider  reel  in  the 
saddle  and  fall  limply  forward.  The 
startled  pony  wheeled  and  broke  into 
a  gallop  and  Flora  put  the  spurs  to  her 
own  horse  and  followed.  The  way  was 
rough  and  there  was  no  telling  when 
that  limp  form  might  fall  from  the 
saddle  to  find  death  under  the  flying 
hoofs.  It  was  a  hard  ride  but  she  won, 
and  pulled  up  the  horse  at  a  water 
hole  not  a  mile  away. 

She  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was 
the  valet,  but  pity  was  her  uppermost 
emotion,  and  she  soon  had  him  out  of 
the  saddle  and  in  the  cool  shade  where 
she  bathed  the  fevered  head,  and  used 
her  own  sombrero  as  a  fan. 

Bob  quickly  recovered  consciousness, 
but  he  found  her  tender  ministrations 
very  comforting,  and  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  obey  her  injunction  to  lie  still 
until  he  was  better.  He  was  willing 
to  lie  there  all  clay  but  she  was  anxious 
to  get  him  to  the  house  where  more 
effective  aid  could  be  rendered  and, 
half  supporting  him,,  she  led  him  to  his 


pony  and  helped  him  into  the  saddle. 
Then,  with  the  reins  within  easy  reach, 
she  led  him  toward  the  ranch. 

Jones  and  Jenkins  were  sitting  on 
the  porch  of  the  ranch  house  as  they 
rode  up,  and  Jones  hurried  forward 
with  real  concern  to  lift  Bob  from  the 
saddle.  His  action  was  so  different 
from  his  merciless  joking  over  Jen- 
kins' laments  at  the  hard  ride  he  had 
taken,  that  the  valet  scowled.  He,  too, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Flora,  and  it 
was  bitterness  to  think  that  the  master, 
in  spite  of  the  masquerade,  held  the 
inside  track. 

He  was  of  little  importance  until 
after  Bob  had  been  made  comfortable, 
and  the  further  affront  to  his  dignity 
only  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his 
love.  Perhaps  it  was  that  which  ren- 
dered him  reckless  of  consequences 
when,  the  following  afternoon,  he  came 
upon  Flora  at  the  water  hole  where 
the  day  before  she  had  rescued  Bob. 
With  a  blush  of  maidenly  shame  she 
recalled  the  scene  to  her  mind,  and 
thought  of  how  gratefully  he  had  held 
her  hand,  longer,  perhaps,  than  mere 
gratitude  required.  The  soft  flush  that 
mantled  her  cheek  at  the  thought  made 
her  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  Jen- 
kins, coming  suddenly  upon  her,  lost 
his  head  completely. 

In  impassioned  speech  he  told  her  of 
his  love  and  begged  her  to  elope  with 
him.  She  shrank  back  from  his  in- 
temperate declarations.  She  knew  that 
Ford  had  been  sent  to  the  ranch  to 
avoid  drink.  •  It  seemed  as  tho  he  must 
have  obtained  some  from  the  cowboys 
in  spite  of  the  strict  rules.  Thoroly 
alarmed,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
tlenkins  clasped  her  in  his  arms;  when 
an  unexpected  thing  happened.  As  tho 
in  answer  to  her  cry,  Bob  came  upon 
the  scene  and  with  an  exclamation  of 
anger  threw  the  valet  to  the  ground. 
Jenkins  rose  with  a  snarl,  thinking  it 
one  of  the  cowbovs;  but  at  the  sight 
of  Bob  he  cringed. 

"Get  out,"  commanded  Bob  briefly. 

For  a  moment  Jenkins  hesitated. 
He  had  a  wild  notion  of  defying  Bob 
and  refusing  to  go ;  but  habit  is  strong, 
and    with    an    unconscious    salute    he 


MY  PRAIRIE  FLOWER 


35 


turned  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps 
toward  the  house. 

"One  would  think  you  were  the  mas- 
ter, not  the  man/''  cried  Flora  as  she 
turned  to  Bob. 

"I'm  a  man/'  he  reminded.  "Any 
cad  like  that  would  obey  in  such  a 
case." 

"But  the  salute  ?"  she  reminded.  At 
the  first  glance  she  had  guessed  the 
truth. 

"That  gets  me,"  admitted  Bob  with 
a  laugh.  "But  let's  forget  the  boss. 
I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  thank  you 
for  all  your  kindness  yesterday  and 
there  could  not  be  a  more  appropriate 
spot  than  the  scene  of  my  Waterloo." 

"You  remember  the  place?"  she 
asked  quickly  and  the  color  surged  to 
her  cheeks  again. 

Bob  threw  off  his  sombrero,  this  time 
one  that  fitted,  and  sank  upon  the  grass 
at  her  feet. 


"Can  I  ever  forget  it?"  he  asked 
soberly. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  livery  rig 
from  town  came  toiling  through  the 
alkali  and  discharged   Henry  Ford. 

"I  had  to  come  after  the  boy,"  he 
said  awkwardly,  when  he  had  ex- 
changed greetings  with  his  old  chum, 
and  had  been  made  known  to  Mrs. 
Jones. 

"I've  got  him  working  hard,  as  you 
told  me,"  explained  Jones  placidly. 

"It  looks  like  it."  suggested  Bob's 
father  drily,  as  that  young  man  came 
cantering  toward  the  house  with  Flora, 
so  engrossed  in  their  conversation  that 
he  did  not  see  the  group  on  the  porch. 

"His  man  may  be  able  to  tell  you 
more  than  1  can,"  suggested  Jones,  and 
Ford  gave  a  shout. 

"His  man!"  he  echoed.  "I'll  bet 
the  boy  has  got  Jenkins  doing  his  hard 
work  for  him.  Bob,  you  scamp,  here's 
your  old  father  come  to  see  you." 

Bob  slipped  quickly  from  his  horse 


1IY    PTUTTUF    FLOWEK. 


36 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


and  gave  his  father  a  hug  then  turned 
to  lift  Flora  from  her  horse. 

"Jenkins,"  he  said,  as  the  valet 
came  softly  from  the  house.  "Take 
my  father's  tilings  up  to  my — your — 
er — my — er — the  room  you  slept  in  last 
night.  Hang  it  all,  I  don't  know  what 
I  do  mean,  but  get!" 

Jenkins  "got,"  glad  that  there  was 
no  more  serious  demonstration,  and 
Bob  turned  to  his  father. 

"It's  all  your  fault/'  he  cried  gaily. 
"You  gave  Jenkins  the  note  asking 
Mr.  Jones  to  make  me  work  hard." 

"I'll  take  the  blame,"  agreed  his  fa- 
ther, and  with  that  slight  explanation 
everyone  was  content.  It  was  enough 
that  Bob  was  Bob,  and  not  the  valet. 
Not  so  much  that  they  regarded  posi- 
tion as  that  they  did  not  like  Jenkins, 
and  it  was  a  happy  party  that  sat  at  the 
supper  table,  while  Jenkins  mourn- 
fully   supped    in   the    cook-house    and 


found  it  hard  to  get  in  touch  with  his 
fellows. 

The  next  afternoon  Flora,  sitting  on 
the  stump  beside  the  water  hole, 
thoughtfully  pulled  the  petals  from  a 
daisy  and  repeated  the  magic  formula. 

Her  face  fell  as  the  last  petal  flut- 
tered from  her  fingers  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  "He  loves  me  not,"  and  in 
her  disappointment  she  did  not  hear 
the  light  laugh  behind  her  until  a  pair 
of  strong  arms  clasped  her  waist. 
"Better  try  it  again  with  another  daisy 
— unless  you  want  to  take  my  word  for 
it,"  cried  Bob.  "I  think,  on  the  whole, 
it's  better  to  take  my  word  for  it.  It 
saves  the  daisies  and  the  worry,  dear.. 
It  was  for  me,  sweetheart?" 

For  a  moment  Flora  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder,  then  she  raised 
her  head  and  smiled. 

"Well — it  wasn't  for  Jenkins,"  she 
answered,  and  hid  her  face  again. » 


MAURICE  COSTELLO,  whose  work  as  a  local  favorite  for  many 
years  in  Spooner's  stock  company,  the  American  stock  company, 
at  the  Columbia  Theatre,  the  Yorkville  stock  company  of  Man- 
hattan and  Boyle's  stock  company  of  Nashville,  Tenn.,  has  brought 
him  into  eminence  as  a  leading  man  both  in  juvenile  and  heavy  char- 
acters, has  distinguished  himself  as  a  star  and  feature  of  the  "life 
portrayals"  which  have  made  him  known  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 

His  characterizations  always  show  a  masterful  appreciation  of  the 
requirements  that  bear  the  impress  of  genius  peculiar  to  the  moving 
picture  star;  nofceable  instances  of  which  are  seen  in  his  portrayals  of 
the  actor  in  "Through  the  Darkness,"  "Orestes,"  "Electra,"  and  "St. 
Elmo"  in  the  "life  portrayal"  of  the  same  name.  He  will  perform  a  most 
wonderful  impersonation  of  Sydney  Carton  in  the  production  of  "The 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  which  is  in  process  of  construction. 

(See  page  2.) 


*: 


Birds  and  Birdmen 


By  J.  Stuart  Blackton 


Illustrated  with  Photographs  by  the  Author 


OTORING  thru  Long  Island  one  crisp 
brilliant  day  in  October  several 
years  ago,  we  slowed  down  at  the 
intersection  of  two  picturesque  ways 
where  thickly  wooded  glades  ran 
to  the  road's  edge  on  either 
side,  and  halted  our  car  where,  thru 
a  vista  of  crimson  and  golden  leaves, 
a  glimpse  of  sparkling  water  and  yel- 
low marshland  redolent  of  a  George 
Innes  landscape,  tempted  us  to  tarry 
and  spread  our  "al  fresco"  lunch. 

Half  an  hour  later,  with  a  cigar  be- 
tween my  teeth  and  feeling  at  peace 
with  all  the  world,  I  lay  flat  on  my 
back  and  looked  straight  up  into  the 

,  many-hued  sky;  looked  just  for  the 
sake  of  looking,  and  saw,  presently, 
half  a  dozen  tiny  black  specks  which 
finally  took  shape  and  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  flock  of  wild  geese.     On 


S 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


they    came,    straight    and 
true,    until,    on    outspread 
pinions,   they  floated  direct- 
ly above  me.     Suddenly  from 
the  marsh,   a  heron  rose  with 
raucous  cry  and  flapped  grace- 
fully up  and  over  the  tree  tops, 
while  almost  simultaneously  a  flock 
of  wild  ducks  whirred  out  of  the 
water  and  streamed  out  like  a  pen- 
nant   swirled   by   the    autumn    wind. 


The  geese  with  one  accord  swept  ma- 
jestically in  a  circle,  and  then,  as  if 
having  decided  unanimously  on  their 
direction,  headed  due  South  and  in  a 
few  seconds  disappeared. 

Life  did  not  seem  so  satisfactory; 
I  envied  those  birds,  envied  their  won- 
derful freedom  of  flight,  their  marvel- 
ous mastery  of  the  domains  of  the  air, 
a  kingdom  yet  unconquered  by  man, 
and  wondered  if  human  science  or  in- 
ventive genius  would  ever  put  hu- 
manity on  an  equality  with  the  goose 
in  the  matter  of  flying. 

Last   October   at  Belmont  Park,   a 
few    miles    from   the    same    spot    on 
Long  Island,  on  the  same  kind  of  a 
day,  I  lay  back  on  the  rear  seat  of  a 
touring  car  and  watched  two  tiny 
specks  so  far  up  that  occasionally 
they  would  be  lost  in  a  rose-col- 
ored cloud  that  appeared  to  be 
trying     to     blot     them     out. 
Steadily    they    grew    larger 
and     more     distinct     until 
every  detail  could  be  seen 
limned   in   black   tracery 
against  the  glowing  arch 
of  the  heavens. 

My    query    of    five 


LE   BLANC'S    MONOPLANE    IN    THE   Alii   AWD   AFTER    CUTTING    A    TELEGRAPH    POLE 

IN    TWO. 


40 


THE    MOTION    PIC  TV  BE    8T0TIY   MAGAZINE 


^      ^^r 


intrepid  little  air  voyageur  had  flown 
four  times  over  the  city  of  Richmond. 
Another  conquest!  and  yet,  as  in' 
all  conquests,  the  price  has  to  be  paid 
— the  cost  is  dreadful.  Poor,  genial, 
dare-devil  Ralph  Johnstone  has  paid 
Death's  toll  and  many  others  went 
before,  in  the  same  quest,  and  still 
more  will  follow.  So,  after  all,  is  the 
question  answered  yet?  Can  man 
with  all  his  human  intelligence  be 
compared,  so  far  as  flying  goes,  with 
the  simple  goose  ? 


years  previous  was  answered 
— they    were    not    geese — the 
two    specks    were    Johnstone 
and  Hoxsey   descending  from 
an  altitude  flight  of  nearly  ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  earth's 
surface.      As    they    neared    the 
ground   another   shadow   passed 
athwart  my  vision,  and  Latham 
in       his       bird-like       monoplane 
swooped   gracefully   upwards,    the 
golden  sunset  glinting  on  the  under 
side    of    his    broad    pinions    as    he 
swerved  and  dipped  in  his  circling 
flight,  paraphrasing  the  heron  whom 
I  had  not  forgotten. 

And  still  more  wonders !  Here 
were  the  "wild  ducks,"  the  saucy 
little  Demoiselles,  and  the  baby 
Wright ;  G-rahame-White  's  Bleriot  and 
Moisant 's  monoplane,  nine  in  all,  cir- 
cling and  wheeling;  crossing  and  re- 
crossing;  whirring  and  buzzing  until 
the  air  seemed  to  be,  and  literally 
was,  full  of  huge  bird-like  creations, 
conceived,  built  and  operated  by  the 
genius,  skill  and  daring  of  man.  The 
domain  of  the  air  wras  conquered.  This 
is  a  story  of  conquest. 

Later  in  the  wTeek  little  Moisant 
with  his  quiet,  confident  smile  and 
his  courageous  black  eyes,  noncha- 
lantly stepped  into  a  monoplane  that 
he  had  tried  for  only  a  few  minutes 
and  triumphantly  flew  from  the  mid- 
dle of  Long:  Island  to  and  around  the 
Statue  of  Liberty  and  back  to  almost 
the  identical  spot  from  which  he 
started.    To-day  I  read  that  the  same 


KTote  :    This   article   is   remarkable   in 
more     than     one     respect.       It     was 
received    by    the    editor    early    last 
December,    and    no    sooner    was    it 
set   in   type   than  the   news   came 
that    Hoxsey    and    Moisant    had 
also  "paid  death's  toll." 
Mr.    Blackton's    words,    "And 
still  more  will  follow,"  have 
proved    prophetic    in    other 
respects  also,  since  the  la- 
mentable death  of  Hoxsey, 
and,  as  he  says,  perhaps 
'"more    will    follow." — 
The  Editor. 


Abraham  Lincoln's  Clemency 


A  Prose  Version  of  Francis  De  Haes  Janiver'-s  Famous  Poem, 
'The  Sleeping  Sentinel" 


It  was  against  the  regulations,  and 
only  a  few  days  before,  the  General 
had  laid  special  stress  upon  the 
importance  of  obeying  to  the  very 
letter  the  injunctions  laid  down,  but 
habit  breeds  contempt  for  infraction. 
An  all-day  scouting  trip  had  tired  the 
men,  and  Will  Scott  felt  that  it  would 
not  matter  if  for  a  few  moments  he  sat 
down  to  rest  his  tired  limbs.  He  was 
almost  at  the  end  of  his  tour  of  duty, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
not  remain  standing  until  the  relief 
came  when  he  could  find  rest  in  the 
guard  tent. 

He  only  meant  to  rest  for  a  moment 
but  almost  on  the  very  instant,  his 
head  sank  forward,  and  forgetfulness 
from  his  weariness  came  in  blessed 
sleep. 

He  was  back  again  on  the  green 
Vermont  hillsides,  and  presently  he 
would  go  back  to  the  old  homestead, 
where  a  huge  cut  of  apple  pie  and  a 
draft  of  milk  would  assuage  a  hunger 
made  the  more  keen  by  his  tramp 
thro  fields  and  woods.  He  was  just 
in  sight  of  the  home,  as  he  thought, 
when  a  shot  was  heard — perhaps 
Dick  Hoe  was  shooting  squirrels  with 
the  old  long-bore  rifle  that  had  been 
his  grandfather's  before  him. 
"Post  number  seven!" 

That  expression  had  no  part  in  the 
Vermont  picture.  Post  seven?  Why 
that  was  his  post:  the  beat  he  had 
been  set  to  guard.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet,  rubbing  his  sleep-heavy  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  his  heart  seemed  to 
cease  its  beating.  Before  him  stood 
the   sergeant    and   the   relief  patrol. 


Will's  own  gun  still  smoked  from  its 
recent  discharge,  and  far  down  the 
line  he  could  hear  repeated  the  call: 
"Corporal  of  the  Guard!  Post  num- 
ber seven ! ' ' 

The  camp,  roused  by  the  alarm 
shot,  was  quickly  astir,  and  the  red- 
sashed  officer  of  the  day  came  hurry- 
ing to  the  scene.  At  command,  Will 
stepped  in  between  his  comrades,  and 
he  marched  off  to  the  guard  tent,  not 
as  a  member  of  the  relieved  party, 
but  as  a  prisoner,  charged  with  being 
asleep  on  post. 

Court  martial  convened  in  the 
morning.  The  Judge  Advocate  made 
his  plea  with  a  wealth  of  forensic  elo- 
quence, but  he  knew  that  he  urged  a 
hopeless  cause.  Will  Scott  had  been 
caught  asleep  on  post,  and  "Post 
seven"  at  that,  which  was  the  direct 
approach  to  Chain  Bridge,  the  road 
to  Washington  from  the  Virginia 
shore.  Just  beyond  the  lines  were  en- 
camped the  Confederates,  so  close,  in- 
deed, that  tobacco  from  the  Southern 
ranks  was  daily  exchanged  for  sugar, 
tea  and  flour  from  the  North.  The 
fraternizing  of  the  outposts  of  the  two 
armies  was  a  thing  before  unheard  of. 
Strong  measures  were  needed  to  stamp 
it  out  before  serious  consequences  re- 
sulted. For  the  good  of  the  discipline 
of  the  entire  army,  Will  Scott  must 
die,  and  not  even  Will  himself  was 
surprised  when  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced. He  was  to  die  within  the 
week. 

There  was  time  for  the  ministra- 
tions of  the  regimental  Chaplain,  time 
to  get  a  letter  to  the  dear  old  Mother 


41 


42 


THE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


IN    THE    LIBRARY    OF   THE    WHITE    HOUSE    A    TALL,    GAUNT    MAN    LOOKED    DOWN 

UPON   THE    ROWS   OF   TENTS. 


in  Vermont,  and  with  a  keen  eye  for 
effect,  General  Smith — "Baldy" 
Smith  as  he  was  known  to  his  men — 
argued  that  the  lesson  for  the  others 
would  be  the  stronger  if  the  execu- 
tion of  sentence  was  delayed.  The 
men  were  used  to  the  instant  snuffing 
out  of  life,  and  the  sight  of  Scott  wait- 
ing day  after  day  to  meet  his  doom 
would  be  vastly  more  effective. 

It  was  night.  On  the  lots  back  of 
the  White  House  rose  a  white  city  of 
war.  The  tents,  newly  issued  to  the 
recruits,  still  were  white  in  the  moon- 
light, for  these  latest  volunteers  had 
not  seen  service  and  were  waiting 
impatiently  for  orders  to  move 
South  when  some  discipline  had 
been  instilled  into  the  untrained 
companies. 

In  the  library  of  the  White  House, 
a  tall,  gaunt  man,  whose  face  was 
beautiful  for  its  very  homeliness, 
looked  down  upon  the  row  of  tents. 

Upon  the  strong,  homely  face  there 
was  a  look  of  anguished  sorrow  such 
as  the  face  of  Christ  might  have  worn 
in   the    garden    of   Gethsemane;    for 


Abraham  Lincoln,  stern  of  face,  but 
tender  in  heart  as  any  woman,  knew 
that  many  of  those  who  slept  beneath 
the  white  canvas  soon  would  sleep  the 
last  sleep  of  death  beneath  the  red 
clay  of  Virginia,  and  his  heart  wept 
for  those  mothers  who  would  mourn 
their  lost  firstborn. 

The  cause  was  just  and  holy,  but  he 
had  plunged  the  country  into  war  and 
he  felt  a  personal  responsibility  to  the 
thousands  whose  unmarked  graves 
were  filled  before  their  time. 

He  did  not  see  the  broad  Potomac, 
flowing  in  silver  tranquillity  past  the 
sleeping  city ;  he  did  not  see  the  broad 
sweep  of  the  flats,  or  the  headlands 
across  the  eastern  branch.  His  gaze 
passed  beyond  these  to  the  scenes  of 
carnage,  where  brother  fought  against 
brother,  and  the  flower  of  the  land 
was  laid  low. 

There  came,  too,  the  vision  of  that 
Vermont  home  from  which  had  come 
that  day  an  appeal  for  the  life  of  Will- 
iam Scott  of  the  Third  Vermont.  It 
was  a  simple  little  letter,  eloquent  not 
in  words  but  in  the  simplicity  of  the 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  CLEMENCY 


43 


mother's  plea  for  her  only  boy  who 
was  to  die  disgraced. 

He  received  hundreds  of  such  let- 
ters, and  they  never  lost  their  appeal ; 
but  he  had  granted  pardons  until  Sec- 
retary Stanton  had  declared  that  he 
was  destroying  discipline  and  had 
made  the  President  half  promise  that 
he  would  withhold  all  pardons  in  the 
future. 

It  had  only  been  a  half  promise,  and 
altho  he  meant  to  keep  it,  the  Presi- 
dent found  it  desperately  hard.  And 
something  about  this  letter,  its  con- 
vincing simplicity,  perhaps,  had 
strangely  moved  him.  Full  half  the 
night  he  had  worked  over  plans,  re- 
ports and  dispatches,  his  heart  strings 
torn  by  their  stories  of  death  and  de- 
feat. 

Out  on  the  Virginia  plains,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  a  firing  squad, 
still  dull  with  sleep,  and  with  no 
relish  for  their  detail,  listlessly  made 
their  way  to  the  scene  of  execution. 
A  week  had  passed,  and  Will  Scott 
marched  with  head  erect  between  his 
companions,  whose  rifles  he  would 
presently  face. 


Bravely  he  took  his  stand  before 
them.  Bravely  he  raised  his  head  as 
the  Sergeant  gave  the  command  to 
make  ready,  altho  he  knew  that  next 
would  come  "Aim,"  and  "Fire,"  and 
with  the  last,  a  deafening  roar  that 
would  be  to  him  the  last  earthly 
sound. 
"Aim!" 

His  muscles  stiffened  and  he  waited 
the  last  command. 
"Halt!" 

It  was  not  the  Sergeant 's  voice,  and 
the  hoof  beats  told  of  the  approach 
of  an  orderly.  It  could  not  be  a  re- 
prieve. What  could  it  mean? 

The  bandage  was  torn  from  his  eyes. 
An  orderly  from  another  regiment 
was  standing  beside  the  sergeant,  and 
thru  the  dust  that  mingled  with  the 
morning  mist  a  carriage  was  seen  to 
approach,  and  presently  the  tall  form 
of  the  President,  taller  still  for  the 
old  fashioned  high  hat,  came  upon  the 
scene. 

"I  need  live  soldiers  more  than  I  do 
dead  ones,"  he  said  to  the  officer.  "I 
pardon  William  Scott." 

He  handed  the  formal  pardon  to  the 


'HIS    HEARTSTRINGS    TORN    BY    THE    STORIES    OF-   DEATH    AND    DEFEAT.' 


44 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE    tSTORY   MAGAZINE 


ALL    HIS    MUSCLES    STIFFENED    AND    HE    WAITED    THE    LAST    COMMAND. 


man,  and  turned  to  Will,  who  wa3 
speechless  with  joy. 
"Young  man,"  he  said  severely,  "I 
have  been  put  to  a  lot  of  expense  to 
save  your  life.  How  are  you  going  to 
pay  me?" 

"We  c'n  mortgage  the  farm,"  sug- 
gested Will,  offering  the  only  solu- 
tion he  could  find.  Lincoln  placed  his 
huge  hands  on  Will's  shoulders. 
' '  That  is  not  enough, ' '  he  said  kindly. 
"Kepay  me  by  showing  that  I  have 
done  well  in  saving  a  man  from  dis- 
grace. Prove  that  he  was  worthy  of 
that  effort,  and  I  shall  not  regret  my 
lost  sleep." 

"I  promise,"  cried  Will,  as  the 
President  turned  away,  and  his  words 
had  the  sanctity  of  an  oath. 

Again  night,  and  a  city  of  tents, 
but  this  time  they  are  crude  shelters, 
the  makeshifts  of  the  Southern  army, 
stained  by  storm  and  soil;  and,  over 
the  field  where  all  day  the  battle 
raged,  the  boys  in  grey,  by  lantern 
light,  picked  their  careful  way, 
searching  for  the  least  spark  of  life 
in  friend  or  foe.  In  the  hospital  tents, 
the  surgeons,  soaked  in  blood,  perform 


hasty  amputations,  or  probe  for  hid- 
den bullets,  and  the  brave  women  of 
the  South  lend  their  gentle  ministra- 
tions to  their  heroes  and  to  their  ene- 
mies without  discrimination.  It  is 
enough  that  they  suffer. 

In  one  corner  of  a  field,  half  hidden 
by  a  fence,  Will  Scott  moves  delir- 
iously. Bravely  he  had  fought  to  hold 
the  position,  urging  his  comrades  to 
defend  their  post,  and  the  Third  Ver- 
mont had  done  much  to  lessen  the 
decisiveness  of  the  Southern  victory. 
In  the  camp  of  the  Third,  where  they 
had  halted  in  their  retreat,  the  men 
speak  in  whispers  of  Scott's  bravery, 
and  even  "Baldy"  Smith  admits  that 
"Old  Abe  knew  what  he  was  doing" 
when  he  let  Scott  go  free. 

On  the  field,  Will  Scott  looks  up, 
and  in  his  dream  he  sees  the  President 
approach,  the  kindly  smile  upon  his 
face,  in  his  hand  a  wreath  of  laurel. 
He  half  raises  himself  upon  a  shat- 
tered arm. 

"Then  you  knew  I  kept  my  prom- 
ise!" he  cried  with  joy,  and  with  a 
happy  smile  upon  his  face  he  falls 
back — dead. 


46 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


«l   PROMISE!"    CRIED   WILL,   AND   HIS    WORDS   HAD   THE    SOLEMNITY   OF   AN    OATH. 


The  field  surgeon,  hurrying  hither, 
kneels  beside  him  and  feels  his  heart. 
"Pass  on,"  he  orders,  as  he  lets  the 
limp  arm  fall.    "We  are  too  late." 


Will  Scott  had  kept  his  promise.  He 
had  proven  himself  worthy  of  his  par- 
don. He  had  fought  for  his  flag  and 
honor. 


VITALIZING  THE  TEACHING  OP  HISTORY 


Beclothing  the  Dry  Bones  of  the  Dead  Past  with  the  Living 

riesh  of  Reality 


To  the  average  schoolboy  the  per- 
sonages of  history  mean  very 
little.  It  is  true  that  a  few  oi 
the  favorite  generals  of  the  Bevolu- 
tion  or  of  the  Civil  War  are  possessed 
of  a  sort  of  fictitious  reality,  but  to 
most  of  our  healthy-minded  children 
it  is  unreasonable  to  expect  them  to 
be  interested  in  the  dry  facts  of  his- 
tory. 

The  American  boy  knows  the  heroes 


of  the  baseball  field  as  he  will  never 
know  Napoleon;  the  former  are  flesh 
and  blood  and  the  latter  is  hidden  be- 
tween a  worn-out  cover  of  a  History 
of  France.  It  remained  for  the  mo- 
tion picture  producer  to  raise  from 
these  dead  pages  of  history,  real  he- 
roes and  stories  of  the  past  that  will 
live  in  memory  and  hold  the  interest 
of  the  schoolboy  spellbound.  It's  his- 
tory disguised  as  fun. 


1  he  big  ^Scoop 

'V— #                                                                 1 

By  James  Bartlett 

A  Graphic  Story  of   Panic   Days  on  'The  Street"  and   How  a 
Reporter  Regained  His  Situation 

"I^vrunk  again,"  murmured  Gor- 
1  don,  who  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  "rewrite"  desk  and 
nursed  a  perpetual  grouch. 
"Which  one?"  demanded  Conover, 
the  City  Editor,  wearily.  "I  wish  I 
was  editing  a  temperance  paper.  Per- 
haps then  I  could  count  on  a  staff." 
"It's  Connors,"  explained  Douglas, 
known  in  the  office  as  * '  Gordon 's  anti- 
dote," but  you  can't  blame  the  boy. 
Three  hours  in  the  flooded  gutter  last 
night  at  the  warehouse  fire  with  thin 
shoes  and  silk  socks.  You  can't  ex- 
pect him  not  to  'take  something'  for 
it — and  you  know  Jim's  failing." 
"But  we're  paying  him  to  work,  not 
to  get  drunk,"  protested  Conover. 
"Connors,"  he  added,  raising  his 
voice. 

Jim  Connors  made  his  uncertain 
way  to  the  desk  and  held  on  the  side 
to  steady  himself. 

"Go  to  the  cashier,"  came  the  sharp 
command.  "We  must  have  men  here 
who  can  do  their  work." 
' '  There 's  lots  of  other  papers ! ' '  came 
the  thick  response. 
' '  Then  get  one, ' '  was  the  quiet  retort, 
as  Conover  turned  again  to  his  work. 

Late  that  night  Jim  Connors  stag- 
gered into  the  little  flat  that  was  his 
home  and  Bessie  Connors  gave  a  pa- 
thetic little  cry. 

"Again,  Jim?"  she  asked  with  gentle 
reproach. 

"Worse  than  just  'again,'  Bess,"  he 
said,  half  sobered  by  the  thought. 
"I'm  let  out  and  Conover  said  last 
time  it  was  final." 


"It  will  come  out  all  right,"  she  as- 
sured him,  comfortingly.  "Get  a 
good  night's  rest  and  it  will  be  all 
right  in  the  morning." 

With  tender  sympathy  she  helped 
him  off  to  bed.  It  was  Jim's  curse  that 
he  loved  drink,  but  she  could  not  re- 
proach him  when  she  realized  the 
hardships  a  reporter  is  called  upon  to 
endure. 

But  it  was  not  all  right  in  the 
morning.  Jim,  clean  shaven  and  in 
his  right  mind,  swallowed  his  pride 
for  the  sake  of  Bess  and  begged  to  be 
taken  back.  He. even  took  appeal  to 
the  managing  editor,  when  Conover 
proved  adamant,  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
Discipline  must  be  maintained,  and 
sadly  Jim  turned  from  the  familiar 
office  to  seek  some  other  place. 

But  in  panic  times  newspapers  re- 
trench, and  everywhere  he  was  met 
with  the  same  reply.  They  wTere  laying 
off,  not  taking  on  men.  There  was  no 
opening. 

Since  the  panic  was  most  pronounc- 
ed in  the  financial  district,  Jim  bent 
his  steps  toward  ' '  The  Street, ' '  in  the 
hope  that  he  might  pick  up  some  item 
of  news  that  he  could  sell  at  space 
rates.  Even  a  couple  of  dollars  would 
help.  But,  tho  he  went  to  all  the  offices 
where  he  was  known,  the  reply  was 
the  same.  There  was  nothing  not 
covered  by  the  City  Press. 

Long  after  the  Exchange  closed, 
and  the  busy  brokers  had  rushed  up 
to  the  uptown  hotel  that  was  their 
favored  gathering  place,  Jim  hung 
about  the  deserted  district  in  the  hope 


47 


48 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


^B^^^^^^^^^^H                                                                  jHJ^^H 

t     1  BP*  *  I     ■juj^ 

fc^"r '  *^                                      Jf*  *^w 

**r  jH                                     H/TSpeF 

GO  TO  THE  CASHIER,"  WAS  THE  SHARP  COMMAND.   "WE  MUST  HAVE  MEN 
HERE  WHO  CAN  DO  THEIR  WORK." 


that  some  late  stayer. might  giye  him 
a  tip ;  and  more  than  one  worried  offi- 
cial was  staying  long  after  hours 
planning  how  they  might  weather  the 
next  day's  storm. 

It  was  late  when  Jim  entered  a  cafe 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  sandwich, 
and  as  he  slowly  sipped  the  cof- 
fee he  was  conscious  that  men  at  the 
next  table  were  discussing  matters  of 
importance,  tho  they  spoke  so  low  that 
even  Jim's  sharp  ears  could  not  catch 
what  was  said. 

It  was  enough  for  him  that  one  of 
the  men  was  Taylor,  the  president  of 
the  Consolidated  Trust  Co.,  so  he 
listened;  and  when  they  went  out 
Connors  followed,  stopping  a  moment 
to  pick  up  a  paper  that  had  fluttered 
to  the  floor  beside  their  table. 

Almost  stealthily  they  entered  the 
side  door  of  the  bank  and  the  door 
closed  upon  them.  Jim  could  not  see 
thru  the  frosted  glass,  and  after  a 
moment's  inspection  of  the  paper, 
which    represented    nothing   to    him, 


he  decided  upon  a  bold  stroke  and 
loudly  rapped  upon  the  door. 

With  the  explanation  that  he  had  a 
paper  belonging  to  Taylor  he  brushed 
past  the  night  watchman  and  entered 
the  Director's  room.  His  appearance 
was  timely,  for  the  loss  of  the  paper 
had  just  been  discovered,  and  Taylor 
was  turning  his  pockets  inside  out 
in  the  hope  that  it  might  yet  be 
found  .  concealed  among  the  other 
bulky  papers  that  he  carried. 

He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  Jim 
handed  him  the  paper,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  men  forgot  his  presence  as 
they  discussed  the  loss  of  the  sheet, 
each  seeking  to  blame  the  other  for 
the  negligence.  The  party  had  been 
joined  by  another,  whom  Jim  recog- 
nized as  the  State  Bank  Examiner, 
and  Jim  realized  that  a  big  story  was 
brewing.  He  realized  that  he  would 
not  be  permitted  to  remain  in  the 
room  much  longer,  and  with  quick 
movement  he  broke  the  end  from  a 
penholder  and  wedged  it  into  the  desk 


THE  BIG  SCOOP 


49 


telephone  standing  on  the  table  so 
that  the  lever  would  be  kept  up. 

A  moment  later  Taylor  dismissed 
him  with  a  word  of  polite  thanks  and 
the  veiled  suggestion  of  a  reward. 
Jim  accepted  the  thanks  but  declined 
the  reward.  Once  outside  the  room 
his  mind  worked  quickly.  He  knew 
that  the  telephone  desk  was  close  to 
the  private  entrance,  and  as  the 
watchman  stood  to  let  him  out,  he 
paused. 

"I'd  like  to  use  the  'phone  a  mo- 
ment," he  said,  trying  hard  to  keep 
his  voice  steady.  "I  understand  about 
using  the  board." 

"Against  orders,"  was  the  curt  re- 
sponse, but  Jim  was  insistent.  He  re- 
minded the  watchman  that  he  had 
just  performed  a  service  for  Taylor 
and  the  man  in  gray  gave  a  reluctant 
assent. 

"I've  got  to  go  and  punch  the 
clocks,"  he  said.  "Hurry  up  and  be 
done  by  the  time  I  get  back." 

With  the  time  clock  slung  from  his 


shoulder  he  started  upon  his  tour,  and 
Jim  quickly  took  his  seat  at  the  board. 
Plugging  the  jack  into  the  switch  for 
the  directors'  room,  he  was  delighted 
to  find  that  his  ruse  worked.  Assured 
of  their  privacy,  they  spoke  loudly  in 
their  excitement,  and  it  was  soon 
made  plain  that  the  Bank  Examiner 
had  not  found  their  affairs  to  his 
liking.  When  banking  hours  came  in 
the  morning,  there  would  be  a  notice 
of  suspension  on  the  heavy  plate  glass 
of  the  doors,  which  would  probably 
sound  the  doom  of  other  trust  com- 
panies that  were  already  trembling  on 
the  verge. 

Jim  could  hear  the  steps  of  the 
watchman  on  the  stone  of  the  stair- 
way and  he  got  the  Record  office. 

"Give  me  Mr.  Bruce,"  he  cried. 
"That  you,  Mr.  Bruce?  this  is  Con- 
nors, Jim  Connors.  I've  a  clean  scoop. 
Will  you  hold  the  press  until  I  can  get 
up?" 

Bruce,  the  night  editor,  promised, 
and  with  a  hurried  word  of  thanks  to 


CONSCIOUS    THAT    THE    MEN    AT    THE    NEXT    TABLE    WERE    DISCUSSING    MATTERS 

OF     IMPORTANCE. 


50 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY    MAGAZINE 


'I   COULDN'T  EXPLAIN  OVER  THE  'PHONE  !"   HE  GASPED,  "BUT  THE  CONSOLIDATED 
WON'T    OPEN    IN    THE    MORNING." 


the  watchman,  and  with  a  coin  to  back 
it  up,  Jim  slipped  from  the  bank.  It 
was  several  blocks  to  Broadway  and 
the  cars,  and  Jim  sprinted,  only  to  be 
stopped  by  a  watchful  policeman  sus- 
picious of  anyone  in  haste  at  that  time 
of  night  amid  the  storehouses  of 
millions.  His  reporter's  card  set  him 
right,  but  precious  moments  were 
lost. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  office,  chaos 
reigned.  Bruce  had  ordered  the  forms 
held  for  the  scoop,  and  others  hotly 
protested.  It  was  merely  some  drunk- 
en freak  of  Connors'  they  declared. 
More  than  likely  he  would  not  show 
up,  but  in  the  back  room  of  some  sa- 
loon would  sit  in  maudlin  glee  over 
the  trouble  he  had  created. 
"I'll  give  him  five  minutes,"  an- 
nounced Bruce. at  last.  Some  of  the 
men  gasped.  At  that  time  of  night, 
with  the  out-of-town  mails  to  catch, 
seconds  were  minutes  and  minutes 
hours.  Gordon,  working  overtime, 
smiled  evilly. 


With  his  eye  on  the  clock  Bruce 
waited.  One  minute,  two,  three,  four 
times  the  second  hand  had  gone  round, 
and  .a  fifth  time  it  drew  close  to  the 
minute.  There  was  a  stir  outside  and 
Jim  burst  into  the  room. 

' '  I  couldn  't  explain  over  the  'phone 
because  the  watchman  was  coming," 
he  gasped,  "but  the  Consolidated 
Trust  won't  open  in  the  morning  and 
the  story  is  not  to  be  given  out!" 

It  was  Gordon  himself  who  sprang 
from  his  seat  and  thrust  Jim  into  it. 
Someone  else  brought  a  typewriter 
and  as  the  sheets  flew  from  the  ma- 
chine they  were  rushed  to  the  lino- 
type men.  There  was  no  time  to  write 
whole '  sheets.  In  sentences  and  para- 
graphs the  paper  was  pulled  from  the 
machine  and  rushed  off,  and  when  Jim 
wrote  the  "30"  under  his  last  line 
Bruce  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
mails  would  be  caught  and  the  story 
was  worth  waiting  for. 
"I  guess  you've  earned  the  right  to 
another  drunk  if  you  want  one,"  he 


THE  BIG  SCOOP 


51 


said  with  a  smile,  but  Jim  shook  his 
head. 

"Me  for  the  girl  and  the  kid  and  a 
big  sleep,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 
"Don't  hurry  down  in  the  morning," 


nounced  with  a  happy  laugh  as  Bess, 
roused  from  her  nap  as  she  sat  at  the 
table,  looked  half  fearfully  up.  "It's 
high  time  you  and  the  kiddie  were  in 
bed,  little  girl,  and  that's  where  I  be- 


"IT'S     HIGH    TIME    YOU    AND    THE    KIDDIE    WERE     IX    BED. 


urged  Bruce,  "but  there  will  be  your 
old  desk  open  for  you  when  you 
come." 

With   a  grateful  pressure    of    the 
hand  Jim  hurried  away  and  the  sub- 
way whisked  him  home. 
"I'm  late  but  I'm  sober,"     he     an- 


long,  for  I  've  pulled  the  big  scoop  for 
to-morrow,  and — Gee!  but  I'm  tired." 
Bess  understood  and  with  a  cry 
crept  into  his  arms.  Jim  had  made 
no  pledge,  but  she  felt  that  this 
time  the  wordless  promise  would  be 
kept. 


PALS 


Adapted  from  the  Play  by  Colin  S.  Collins 


The  Story  of  a  partnership  that  was  broken  thru  the  rascality  of 
a  Mexican,  but  made  whole  again  thru  fortunate  circumstances 


The  wicked  looking  blade  gleamed 
coldly  in  the  light  as  it  flashed 
on  high.  Some  of  the  regular 
patrons  of  the  "Grub  Stake"  bar 
edged  toward  the  door.  When 
"Greasy  Diego"  went  on  a  drank  it 
was  just  as  well  to  be  somewhere  else 
unless  you  happened  to  have  a 
"grouch"  against  the  life  insurance 
company  that  wrote  your  policy. 
Those  who  could  not  get  to  the  door 


stood  looking,  with  the  odd  indiffer- 
ence of  the  plainsman  to  'the  passing 
of  human  life,  and  in  that  electric 
moment  wondered  what  Jack  Harper 
would  do  to  Diego  should  the  thrust 
not  prove  immediately  fatal. 

Harper  was  reasonably  quick  on 
the  draw,  but  the  hammer  had  caught 
against  a  frayed  edge  of  the  holster, 
and  he  was  at  the  Mexican's  mercy. 

But    the    blade    did    not    fall    and 


DENTON'S    ARRIVAL    IN    THE    WEST. 
52 


PALS 


53 


Diego  uttered  a  cry  of  pain  as  an  iron 
grip  closed  over  the  slender  wrist  with 
a  pressure  that  seemed  able  to-  crush 
it.  For  a  moment  he  writhed  and 
struggled,  seeking  to  'turn  the  blade 
against  this  new  antagonist,  but  the 
knife  clattered  to  the  floor  and  in 
another  moment  half  a  dozen  men 
were  piled  upon  his  prostrate  form 
and  Harper  was  shaking  hands  with 
his  preserver. 

"And  you  a  'tenderfoot,"  he  cried 
amazed.  "When  I  saw  you  get  off 
the  stage  I  sure  had  it  figured  that 
you'd  take  some  training  to  get  in 
line  for  the  West,  but — say — you're  a 
ready-made  man,  that's  what  you  are. 
What's  your  name,  Old  Timer?" 

"Brooks  Denton,"  answered  the 
easterner,  not  conscious  of  the  compli- 
ment the  expression  ' '  Old  Timer ' '  con- 
veyed. 

"You're  all  right,  Denton,"  cried 
Harper,  "and  any  time  you  want  a 
pal  just  tell  me  about  it.  I'm  your 
man  if  you  want  me. ' ' 

"Then  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now," 
was  the  smiling  response.  "I  do  want 
a  pal,  and  if  you  mean  it,  I  think  we 
can  get  along  first  rate.  I've  enough 
to  grub-stake  two  for  a  few  months 
and—" 

"And  I've  a  pretty  comfortable 
cabin,"  volunteered  Harper.  "Is  it 
a  go?" 

' '  The  very  thing  I  wanted, ' '  was  the 
hearty  response.  "Let's  have  a  drink 
to  celebrate  the  event  and  then  get 
down  to  business." 

The  invitation  to  all  hands  to  step 
up  to  the  bar  completed  Denton's 
popularity  not  an  hour  after  he  had 
stepped  from  the  stage,  and  presently 
he  became  part  owner  of  Harper's 
cabin  by  virtue  of  a  liberal  contribu- 
tion of  stores. 

The  partnership  brought  success  to 
Harper,  whose  development  work  on 
a  lead  did  not  return  the  promise  of 
the  indications.  With  two  men  to 
work  they  made  more  rapid  progress, 
and  the  indications  again  grew  most 
favorable.  Harper  had  been  famous 
in  camp  for  his  prejudice  against 
"tenderfeet"  from  the  East,  but  now 
he  swore  that  the  ideal  combination 


was  a  man  from  the  East  and     one 
from  the  W^est. 

When  the  work  was  temporarily 
stopped  by  a  cave-in  which  laid  Den- 
ton up  for  several  weeks  Harper 
nursed  him  as  tenderly  as  a  woman 
and  knitted  more  firmly  the  bond 
between  the  two  men. 

Then  came  pay-rock,  and  day  after 
day  Harper  and  Denton  added  to  the 
store  of  gold  in  the  chimney  piece  and 
planned  what  they  would  do  when 
the  pile  grew  big  and  the}^  could  sell 
the  mine  for  a  good,  round  sum.  Five 
thousand  apiece  was  the  sum  they  set 
for  the  "cleanup,"  and  then  Denton 
would  go  back  East  for  his  family 
while  Harper  stayed  to  sell  the  mine. 
Denton's  mother  was  failing  fast  and 
he  was  anxious  to  get  back  home. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  dust 
was  weighed  for  the  hundredth  time, 
and  with  the  last  addition  made  up 
the  sum.  Half  the  night  they  sat  up 
and  planned,  and  it  was  late  when 
they  rose  in  the  morning. 

"You  go  up  to  the  claim  and  start 
in, ' '  suggested  Denton,  ' '  and  I  '11  wash 
the  dishes  and  clean  up.  We'll  put  in 
one  more  day  and  to-morrow  we'll 
cash  in  the  dust  and  divide.  I  don't 
like  the  idea  of  so  much  dust  here. 
Diego  doesn't  like  us  and  one  of  these 
days  he'll  make  a  raid." 

"Not  while  he  remembers  the  grip 
you  gave  him, ' '  denied  Harper  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  shouldered  his  tools. 
"Bring  up  some  stuff  for  lunch  when 
you  come." 

Denton  nodded,  and  when  his  pal 
had  gone  he  busied  himself  with  the 
dish-washing.  He  was  still  at  work 
when  a  miner  living  up  the  creek 
dropped  in. 

' '  This  came  in  on  the  stage  this  morn- 
ing,"  he  explained,  handing  him  a 
yellow  telegraph  envelope.  "The 
driver  asked  me  to  bring  it  along  to 
save  him  the  trip,  and  he  says  he's 
going  back  at  half  past  eleven." 

He  hurried  away,  for  he  knew  the 
contents  of  the  envelope  and,  man- 
like, he  hated  a  scene. 

With  trembling  fingers  Denton  tore 
open  the  envelope  and  confirmed  his 
fears.    His  mother  was  sinking.    Per- 


54 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


DIEGO    UTTERED   A   CRY    OF   PAIN   AS   AN   IRON    GRIP    CLOSED    OVER    HIS    SLENDER 

WRIST. 


haps  it  would  be  too  late  to  see  her 
alive,  but  she  was  calling  for  him  and 
they  knew  that  he  would  come. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was 
eleven.  There  was  no  time  to  go  up 
to  the  claim  and  tell  Harper.  There 
was  time  only  to  throw  a  few  things 
in  a  grip  and  hurry  to  the  Grub  Stake 
to  take  the  stage  for  the  railroad. 

On  the  back  of  a  flour-sack  he  wrote 
a  brief  note  for  Harper,  explaining 
the  situation,  and  promising  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible.  "I  don't  need  the 
dust,"  he  added.  "We  will  divide 
when  I  get  back." 

He  left  this  and  the  telegram  on 
the  table  where  Harper  would  be  sure 
to  see  it,  and  he  never  noticed 
"Greasy  Diego"  peering  through  the 
window.  The  Mexican  had  seen 
Harper  going  toward  the  claim  alone, 
and  thought  his  chance  had  come  to  be 
revenged  upon  the  man  who  had 
humiliated  him. 

Something  he  guessed  from  the  mes- 
sage  and   the   actions   that  followed, 


and  now  a  new  scheme  of  revenge  sug- 
gested itself.  As  soon  as  Denton  left 
the  shack  he  slipped  thru  the  lightly 
latched  door  and  made  a  rapid  survey 
of  the  room.  It  did  not  take  him  long 
to  locate  the  loose  bricks  in  the  chim- 
ney that  marked  the  hiding  place,  and 
he  paused  only  long  enough  to  destroy 
the  note  and  telegram  and  leave  in 
its  place  another  that  read : 

"I'm  tired  of  the  country  and  I'm 
taking  the  dust.  You  can  have  the 
mine  to  get  more  from. ' ' 

Diego,  unlike  many  of  his  class, 
could  write  well,  and  it  was  not  the 
first  time  that  he  had  forged  the  writ- 
ing of  others.  The  note  would  have 
puzzled  Denton  himself,  and  it  com- 
pletely deceived  Harper  when  he  tired 
of  waiting  for  his  lunch  and  returned 
to  the  shack. 

"My  pal,"  he  moaned  as  he  sank 
into  a  chair.  ' '  He  could  have  had  the 
doggone  dust,  if  he  wanted,  if  he  only 
had  asked,  but  to  do  me  dirt  like  this 
when  I  trusted  him!" 


PALS 


55 


That  was  what  hurt.  He  had 
trusted  Denton  as  a  brother.  He  had 
come  to  love  him  with  more  than  a 
brother's  love,  and  the  betrayal 
destroyed  his  faith  in  all  men. 

For  more  than  an  hour  he  sat  silent 
and  gloomy,  staring  with  unseeing 
eyes  at  the  rifled  cache.  Then  he  rose, 
and  there  was  a  new  look  in  his 
face;  it  was  hatred  and  stern  purpose 
and  he  buckled  his  holster  about  his 
waist. 

At  the  Grub  Stake,  while  waiting 
for  the  evening  stage,  he  learned  that 
Denton  had  taken  the  noon  stage  and 
that  he  had  carried  a  large  bag  that 
seemed  to  be  heavy.  It  could  not  have 
contained  all  of  the  dust,  some  of  it 
must  have  been  cached;  but  he  had 
gone,  and  with  him  all  of  Harper's 
faith  in  his  fellow  man. 

"I'm  going  to  catch  him,"  Harper 
confided  to  the  Sheriff,  "and  when  I 
do  I  guess  there  won't  be  any  need 
of  an  inquest  to  find  out  that  he's 
dead." 


"Better  go  careful,"  urged  the 
Sheriff.  "They  don't  care  for  gun- 
play back  East." 
"I'm  not  doing  this  to  please  them," 
reminded  Harper,  as  he  climbed 
aboard  the  stage,  and  the  Sheriff  knew 
that  it  would  be  short  shrift  for 
Denton  should  he  be  found. 

New  York  is  a  large  place  and 
Harper  searched  the  directory  in  vain 
for  the  Denton  he  sought.  There  were 
many  in  'the  huge  volume,  but  not  the 
man  he  wanted,  tho  he  visited  each 
in  turn.  Day  after  day  he  set  out  on 
his  quest,  ever  hopeful  that  he  would 
find  the  man  who  had  played  him 
false. 

He  was  on  the  search  in  the  suburbs 
when  there  was  a  cry  from  the 
passers-by,  and  he  'turned  in  time  to 
see  a  speeding  automobile  knock  down 
a  little  child.  The  people  surged  about 
the  car,  but  Harper  was  first  upon  the 
scene  and  it  was  he  who  raised  the 
little  one  from  the  dust. 

The  self-important   small   boy  vol- 


'jig  \    '(*(>  i.tU    fff  ' 

... 

HE    TURNED     IN     TIME     TO     SEE     A     SPEEDING     AUTOMOBILE     KNOCK     DOWN     A 

LITTLE     CHILD. 


56 


TEE   MOTION   PIC  TV  BE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


'I'LL  GIVE  YOU  TEN  SECONDS  TO  SAY  YOUR  PRAYERS." 


unteered  to  show  the  way  to  her  home, 
and  leaving  the  policeman  to  get  the 
address  of  the  owner  of  the  car  Harper 
bore  his  burden  as  gently  as  could  a 
woman,  nor  did  he  lay  the  burden 
down  until  her  own  little  bed  was 
ready  and  the  doctor  had  come. 

* '  I  'd  like  to  come  out  to-morrow  and 
see  if  she's  all  right,"  he  said  awk- 
wardly to  the  mother,  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  the  next  day  Harper, 
ladened  with  fruits  and  toys,  was 
ushered  into  the  tiny  room  where  the 
little  sufferer  lay,  her  sprained  limbs 
tightly  bandaged. 

Harper  loved  children,  and  he  was 
soon  deep  in  the  intricacies  of  a  fairy 
tale,  while  the  mother  stole  out  to 
take  advantage  of  the  respite  to  attend 
to  her  household  tasks. 

" — And  so  the  Princess  turned  and 
said,"  he  recited,  then  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  gave  utterance  to  some- 
thing that  was  very  unlike  the  lan- 
guage of  a  Princess  in  a  fairy  tale. 
Like  a  flash  his  gun  was  whipped  from 
its  holster,  and  he  stood  with  the  ugly 


muzzle  pointing  to  the  heart  of  the 
man  who  had  been  his  pal. 

"I've  found  you,"  he  cried,  forget- 
ful of  the  child.  "I've  found  you,  you 
thieving  cur.  I  swore  when  I  found 
you  that  I  would  shoot  to  kill  and  I'm 
going  to  do  it,  Denton." 

"Jack!  Are  you  crazy?"  cried 
Denton  as  he  saw  the  light  of  madness 
in  the  other's  eyes. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  came  the  response. 
"You'd  be  crazy,  too,  if  your  pal  had 
done  you  dirt." 

"  I !  How  ? ' '  There  was  conviction 
in  Denton's  tones,  but  Harper  gave 
no  heed. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  he 
snarled.  "Don't  lie  out  of  it,  now  I 
have  you  cornered.  I'll  give  you  ten 
seconds  to  say  your  prayers.  One, 
two—" 

Denton  could  not  speak.  He  did  not 
understand  what  had  happened.  He 
could  not  imagine  what  his  offense  had 
been. 

"Three — four — five — "  Harper  was 
counting  slowly,  and  with  the  solemn 


PALS 


57 


tones  of  a  judge  pronouncing  a  death 
sentence. 
' '  Six — seven — eight — nine — ' ' 

The  finger  on  the  trigger  trembled. 
1 '  Don 't  you  f righten  my  papa !  Don 't 
Don't!" 

Both  men  had  forgotten  the  child 
in  the  tense  moments.  The  cry  broke 
the  spell.  Harper  let  the  pistol  fall 
to  his  side. 

"The  -kid  saved  you,"  he  said 
huskily.  ' '  Let  me  go  before  the  crazi- 
ness  comes  again." 

He  turned  toward  the  door,  but 
Mrs.  Denton  blocked  the  way.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  telegraph  envelope 
which  she  offered  to  her  husband. 
Denton  read  and  passed  the  yellow 
sheet  to  his  pal. 


"The  greaser  got  the  money,"  the 
wire  ran.  "He  borrowed  a  horse  to 
take  it  across  the  border,  and  that  is 
how  we  happened  to  get  him.  He 
confessed.  Try  and  locate  Harper 
and  tell  him.    He's  looking  for  you." 

The  slip  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
Harper  turned  to  his  friend. 

"I  ain't  worthy,  after  the  way  I 
acted,"  he  said  huskily,  "but  if  you 
can  forgive — . " 

A  handclasp  was  the  answer  and 
Harper  turned  to  the  little  bed  and 
placed  an  arm  about  the  frightened 
child. 

"We'll  make  her  the  third  pal,"  he 
said  tenderly.  "That  morning  I 
blasted  out  the  pay  streak  and  there's 
gold  enough  for  three  good  pals." 


Miss  Clara  Williams 


Miss  Clara  Williams  is  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
the  picture  players.  While  she  has  had  fine  success  in 
various  other  roles,  she  excels  in  the  plays  of  the  West. 
Having  spent  several  years  on  a  cattle  ranch,  she  is 
familiar  with  the  real  cowboy,  she  is  an  expert  horse- 
woman, and  a  lover  of  out-door  life.  All  of  Miss 
Williams'  impersonations  are  highly  artistic. 


A  COWBOY'S  VINDICATION 


By  Constance  Hall 


"\/0IjrRE  onl3r  wasting  time,  Bill; 

Y  simply  ain't  got  no  use  for  a  card 
sharp." 

The  speaker  was  Faro  Xan,  known 
to  all  the  cow  punchers  and  sheep  herd- 
ers from  Wyoming's  open  ranges  to  the 
Texas  Panhandle  as  the  owner  of  the 
Golden  Gulch  Saloon.  The  man  whom 
she  addressed  was  the  notorious  Jesse 
Gibbs,  gambler  and  "bad  man."  His 
evil  reputation  was  warranted  by  his 
appearance,  and  as  he  leaned  over  the 
rude  bar  and  glared  into  the  defiant 
black  eyes  of  Faro  Xan,  it  was  apparent 
he  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  also 
that  in  the  handsome  proprietress  of 
the  low  dance  hall  he  had  met  one  as 
desperate  as  himself. 

"Yah !"  sneered  Gibbs,  "you're  a  nice 
one  to  pick  and  choose,  ain't  yer  ? 
Yer  want  a  kid  with  a  rich  ma,  eh? 
Yer  so  consarned  respectable  and  soci- 
ety and  gaudy  like,  so  as  to  speak,  that 
yer  want  to  have  Gulchville  with  bells 
on.  But  you'll  never  marry  Bill  Mor- 
rison, for  1*11  promiscous  like  fill  him 
so  full  of  lead  that  his  friends  won't 
be  able  to  carry  him  beneath  no  weep- 
ing willow  tree,  but'U  leave  him  where 
I  dropped  him  to  stimulate  backward 
sage  brush." 

This  was  a  long  burst  of  oratory  for 
Gibbs,  and' he  refreshed  himself  with  a 
drink  while  Xan  grinned.  Xan  always 
grinned.  All  felines  do.  She  had  good 
teeth  and  delighted  in  showing  them, 
but  her  present  mirth   was  genuine. 

"Ha.  ha,  ha  !  You'll  never  dare  to 
shoot  Will  Morrison.  You  don't  tote 
sand  enough.  All  you  can  do  is  to  par- 
lay a  two-bit  into  the  price  of  a  spree," 
and  she  turned  from  him  with  a  gesture 


of  contempt  and  looked  out  upon  the 
dust-swept  range. 

"Xan,"  he  pleaded  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone,  "I  do  shore  love  you; 
1  am  all  for  you  and  will  give  up  gam- 
bling and  live  honest.  Durn  me, — 111 
even  turn  sheep-herder  and  be  a  good 
square  husband  to  yer." 

"Xothin'  doin',  Sweet  William,"  she 
answered  with  a  rapidity  of  utterance 
that  caused  him  to  start  in  surprise. 
"I  simply  don't  like  your  turn."  Here 
she  paused  and  stared  at  him  until  his 
snake-like  eyes  directed  their  gaze  to 
the  sawdust-covered  floor. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  continued,  "if 
any  hurt  comes  to  Will,  if  any  accident 
comes  to  him,  if  he  by  chance  falls 
from  his  cay  use  and  breaks  his  neck, 
unless  a  good  and  true  witness  is  there 
to  clear  you,  I'll  consider  you  roped 
him  behind  his  back  and  threw  him  off 
the  caviata  onto  the  range,  and  Fll  see 
you'll  surely  swing  for  it." 

"Me  rope  him?"  faintly  inquired  the 
furtive-eyed  gambler.  "What  the  hotel- 
bill  do  I  know  about  roping?  It's  all 
I  can  do  to  ride  in  a  box  car." 

The  girl  grinned. 

"You're  not  dealing  out  Mexican, 
salvo  to  tenderfoots.  I  know  your  rec- 
ord and  how  you  got  your  grub  stake 
from  your  bunkie  who  never  showed  up 
since.  Well,  I  like1  you  the  more  for 
your  nerve,  but  Will  Morrison's  folks 
have  the  coin  and  little  Faro  Xan  was 
always  first  on  line  at  the  chuck  wagon. 
If  you  had  the  ready  dough  I'd  take 
you." 

The  evil  face  of  the  gambler  was 
aflame  with  joyous  anticipation,  as  he 
leaned  forward   and   whispered,  "Xan. 


59 


60 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


I'm  going  to  trust  yer."  She  had 
turned  from  him  with  an  air  of  lazy 
contempt,  but  the  glow  of  conscious 
strength  that  transformed  his  swarthy 
face  caused  her  to  listen  with  an  air 
of  deference. 

"Kid/7  he  whispered,  "I've  got  five 
thousand  cached.  I  got  it  kinder  hard 
and  sorter  nasty,  but  the  cush  calls  out. 
'Money  talks/  and  it  yells  loud  enough 
to  smother  all  other  chin  music." 

"I  shore  am  the  original  Miss  from 
Missouri,"  replied  Nan  with  an  in- 
credulous grin,  "but  if  you  have  copped 
cinco  thousand  simoleons,  you  are  the 
king  of  the  candy  kids  and  I'll  have 
you." 

The  two  worthies  whispered  across 
the  rude  bar  with  an  air  of  mutual 
understanding  but  were  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  a  tall,  handsome  youth 
attired  as  a  ranchman  of  the  more 
prosperous  class,  who  thrust  his  way 
to  the  bar  with  an  air  of  mastery;  and, 
sneering  contemptuously  at  the  gam- 
bler, ordered  a  drink,  paying  for  it 
with  a  bill  extracted  from  a  roll  of  such 
proportions  as  to  cause  the  gambler  to 
gasp  in  surprise  and  the  gentle  Nan  to 
forget  Gibbs'  hoard  and  regard  the 
young  ranchman  with  an  air  of  ap- 
proval. This  was  wormwood  to  the 
jealous  gambler  and,  after  a  few  signs 
to  Nan,  which  that  social  light  of 
Gulchville  received  with  undisguised 
contempt,  he  suddenly  lurched  against 
the  unsuspecting  ranchman  with  such 
force  that  he  was  almost  thrown  to  the 
ground,  and  the  youth,  catching  at  the 
bar  to  save  himself  from  falling,  Gibbs, 
with  lightning-like  rapidity,  covered 
him  with  his  revolver. 

"Faro  Nan,"  shouted  the  infuriated 
ruffian,  "I  dealt  you  a  fair  hand  and 
you  are  reneging  on  the  agreement." 

"Chump,"  sneered  Nan,  "you  shore 
are  plum  locoed.  I  am  thru.  Will 
Morrison  is  a  gentleman,  but  you  are 
too  showy  with  your  hardware  for  my 
place." 

Gibbs  retorted  with  a  curse  of  defi- 
ance and  was  about  to  pull  the  trigger, 
when  an  erect,  self-reliant  man,  strong- 
ly  resembling    Will,    rushed    into   the 


room ;  and  wrenching  the  revolver  from 
Gibbs,  thrust  it  in  his  belt  and  covered 
the  astonished  gambler  with  his  pistol. 

"You  just  leave  my  brother  alone  or 
there'll  be  an  awful  iot  about  it  in  the 
papers  next  morning.  Come  home, 
Will,"  he  continued  in  a  low  tone,, 
"mother  is  worrying  about  you." 

After  a  brief  argument,  Will  fol- 
lowed Frank  from  the  saloon  and  rode 
rapidly  to  the  Morrison.  Eanch,  the 
home  of  his  mother.  Mrs.  Morrison 
was  a  widow  whose  declining  years  were 
rendered' unhappy  by  Will,  who  had  be- 
come a  confirmed  gambler  and  heavy 
drinker  ever  since  Nan  had  opened  the 
saloon.  On  the  way  home  Frank  was 
almost  paternal  in  his  advice  to  his 
weak  younger  brother,  who  listened  to 
his  censure  with  undisguised  contempt, 
tho  with  apparent  respect  to  the  gentle 
remonstrances  of  his  mother.  *  At  the 
first  opportunity,  however,  he  stole  off 
to  the  attic  where  he  knew  she  had 
secreted  her  purse,  and,  taking  all  the 
money  it  contained,  hurried  to  the  cor- 
ral, saddled  his  pony  and  was  riding 
away,' when  Frank  happened  to  see  him 
and  not  wishing  him  to  return  to  the 
saloon,  insisted  that  he  should  not  leave 
the  ranch.  Will  was  somewhat  under 
the  influence  of  liquor  and  drew  his  re- 
volver, and  Frank,  realizing  his  condi- 
tion, grappled  with  him  fiercely.  As 
they  struggled  for  the  pistol,  another 
revolver  was  raised,  unseen  by  the 
brothers.  It  was  Gibbs,  who,  bent  upon 
revenge,  had  followed  them  from  the 
saloon.  A  loud  report  reverberated 
thru  the  woods.  Will's  weapon  had 
discharged  at  the  same  instant  as 
the  gambler's,  and  the  misguided 
boy  fell  dead  in  his  brother's  arms. 
The  two  reports  had  rang  forth  simul- 
taneously and  Frank  stared  at  his 
brother's  inert  form  in  horror,  as  he 
gradually  realized  that  Will  was  dead, 
and,  as  he  believed,  that  the  mark  of 
Cain  was  upon  him. 

"Will,  my  little  brother  !"  he  moaned, 
"I  simply  could  not  a-done  it.  I  didn't 
go  to  do  it.  It  was  an  accident."  And 
overpowered  by  his  emotions,  he  burst 
into  tears. 

Gibbs,  tho  at  first  unable  to  under- 


A   COWBOY'S    VINDICATION 


61 


stand  Frank's  emotion,  soon  realized 
the  situation ;  and,  gloating  over  the 
hope  that  he  had  destroyed  his  two 
enemies,  stole  silently  to  the  thicket 
where  his  horse  was  tied,  and  rode  rap- 
idly away  to  acquaint  the  sheriff  with 
Frank's  crime. 

In  the  meantime,  the  grief-stricken 
man  mastered  his  sorrow,  and  after  a 
hasty  retrospect  of  the  struggle,  he  be- 
gan to  realize  that  lie  had  never  really 
covered  Will  with  the  pistol.  He  arose, 
no  longer  weeping  and  abject,  but  a 
stern,  self-reliant  man  determined  on 
revenge. 

A  close  scrutinv  showed  fresh  foot- 
prints nearby  leading  to  the  prints  of 
horseshoes  not  made  on  Morrison's 
Ranch,  and  he  leaped  to  his  saddle  and 
followed  the  plainly  discernible  trail 
in  the  soft  mud. 

In  the  meantime,  Gibbs  had  notified 
the  sheriff  and  several  cowboys,  and 
they  were  now  riding  rapidly  to  the 
scene  of  the  crime. 

Gibbs,  not  relishing  the  probability 
of  getting  a  chance  shot,  hurried  to  tell 
Nan,  who,  angered  at  losing  a  wealthy 


suitor,  expressed  a  fervent  wish  that 
the  posse  would  capture  Frank. 

Morrison  only  escaped  the  misguided 
vengeance  of  the  gang  by  accidentally 
taking  another  trail,  and  rode  rapidly 
to  the  Golden  Gulch  Saloon,  where  he 
met  Gibbs  face  to  face. 

"You  murdered  my  brother,  you 
dog!"  he  shouted  fiercely,  seizing  the 
cowardly  gambler  and  hurling  him  to 
the  floor. 

Gibbs'  stammering  denials  only  con- 
firmed Frank's  suspicions,  and  he  soon 
succeeded  in  wresting  a  sullen  confes- 
sion from  the  murderer.  But  no  sooner 
was  the  admission  made,  than  he  sud- 
denly arose  and  fell  upon  Frank  with 
a  strength  born  of  desperation.  A 
desperate  struggle  ensued,  but  the 
dissipated  gambler  was  no  match  for  the 
active  young  man.  and  when  the  posse 
arrived  Frank  Morrison  had  quite  con- 
quered the  self-confessed  criminal. 
Cleared  of  the  brand  of  Cain,  sadly  he 
rode  back  to  comfort  his  mother  who. 
alas!  was  bereft  of  a  son,  but  of  only 
one,  for  the  cowboy  had  found  his 
vindication. 


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HER    GRAN'PERE     WAS     A     BIG     CHIEF 


The  Perversity  of  Fate 


From  the  Picture  Play  by  Taylor  White 


In  which  the  reader  Is  taken  from  the  city  streets  to 
the  Canadian  wilds,  and  is  once  more  shown  that  Fate 
is  a  fickle  jadewho  disarranges  even  the  best  laid  plans 


ik 


"  A  nd  you'll  wait,  dear — even  tho 
/\  the  time  seems  long?" 
4  *  Marion  Marlow  glanced  at  the 
thin  gold  circlet  that  was  the  sole 
ornament  of  her  slim,  capable  fingers. 
It  was  characteristic  of  John  Rose 
that  he  should  ask  Marion  to  marry 
him,  even  while  confessing  that  he 
could  not  afford  a  diamond  ring  as 
the  pledge  of  his  troth. 

"I'll  wait,"  she  promised,  with  a 
little  shudder  that  caused  her  to 
nestle  more  closely  against  the  power- 
fully muscled  shoulder,  "but  Quebec 
is  such  a  long  way  from  here,  Jack." 
' '  Not  so  far  as  the  Michigan  camps, ' ' 
he  declared  lightly,  "and  I  stand  a 
better  chance.  I'm  not  fitted  for  the 
city,  it's  too  big  and  too  small  at  the 
same  time. ' ' 

Marion  nodded  understandingly.  A 
few  years  before  he  had  come  to  New 
York  to  make  his  way — one  of  the 
thousands  who  annually  set  forth  to 
conquer — and  Rose  had  been  one  of 
the  conquered.  He  longed  for  the 
freedom  of  "the  lumber  camps,  the 
wide,  open  spaces  of  the  woods,  and  he 
lacked"  the  aggressiveness  that  forces 
men  ahead  where  opportunities  are 
few  and  applicants  many.  He  was  not 
content  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  store,  yet  he 
could  not  advance  himself. 

Marion  herself  had  done  much 
jetter.  From  file  clerk  she  had  worked 
her  advancement  until  now  she  was 
James  Elrood's  confidential  secretary, 
quiet,  alert  to  her  employer's  interest, 


and  never  forgetful  of  her  duties.  She 
was  making  more  money  than  Jack, 
and  it  was  partly  this  thought  that 
drove  him  back  to  the  woods  when  the 
offer  came  from  the  Elk  River  Com- 
pany's foreman.  In  the  woods  he 
could  earn  enough  to  support  a  wife 
and  family.  In  the  city  he  never 
could  hope  to  gain  the  advance. 

And  so  he  went  back  to  the  Can- 
adian forests,  where,  with  each  stroke 
of  his  keen-bladed  axe,  he  liked  to 
think  that  he  was  carving  out  the  home 
that  he  should  make  for  Marion  and 
her  mother;  and  Marion,  in  the  city, 
went  quietly  about  her  work  making 
herself  more  and  more  valuable  to 
Elrood. 

Jack's  letters  carried  small  encour- 
agement. Several  times  it  seemed  as 
tho  promotion  were  in  his  grasp,  but 
always  there  came  the  unexpected — 
once  a  touch  of  fever,  once  a  broken 
arm,  but  always  when  he  came  back 
there  was  a  new  foreman  in  charge  of 
the  camp  and  Chance  had  again 
passed  him  by. 
"It's  the  perversity  of  Fate,"  Jack 
wrote.  "Some  time,  when  I  do  not 
need  the  hick,  it  will  come.  And  when 
I  see  Royston  and  his  family  I  envy 
them." 

The  words  came  back  to  Marion  one 
night  as  she  sat  in  her  cold  room  and 
counted  and  recounted  her  slender 
resources.  All  summer  her  mother 
had  been  slowly  failing,  and  now  the 
great  specialist  to  whom  she  had  gone 


64 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


HE    WAS    THINKING     OF    ROYSTON'S     COURTSHIP. 


for  advice  had  ordered  her  South,  for 
the  winter. 

' 'The  first  flurry  "of  snow  will  seal 
her  death  warrant,  Miss  Marlow,"  he 
had  solemnly  assured  her.  ' '  She  must 
go  South  before  the  frost  comes,  or  it 
will  be  too  late." 

He  had  turned  to  the  next  patient 
with  no  thought  of  the  quivering  lip 
or  blanched  face.  To  him  she  was  only 
a  "case" — not  even  an  interesting 
one;  and  now  she  sat  with  the  bank- 
book and  her  purse  before  her,  won- 
dering how  she  could  make  one  dollar 
do  the  work  of  ten. 

But  the  problem  was  solved  and 
some  weeks  later  John  Rose,  sitting  in 
front  of  the  rude  bunk  house,  read 
and  reread  the  brief  letter  that  had 
come  in  by  the  last  messenger.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  knew  it  by  heart,  yet 
he  read  it  over  and  over  again,  trying 
to  realize  that  it  was  from  Marion. 

"Dear  Jack,"  she  had  written, 
"don't  think  badly  of  me  because  I 
return  the  ring.  It  is  not  because  I 
am  tired  of  waiting,  dear,  but  because 
I  cannot  make  mother's  life  the  price. 
Mr.  Elrood  has  asked  me  to  be  his 


wife.  We  shall  be  married  in  Sep- 
tember and  the  honeymoon  will  be  to 
take  mother  South,  where  she  will  at 
least  have  a  chance  for  life.  Forgive 
and  try  to  forget.    Your  Marion. ' ' 

A  light  step  on  the  dried  grass 
roused  him,  and  he  looked  up  with  a 
scornful  smile  on  his  lips.  Tel,  the 
daughter  of  the  half-breed,  Pierre, 
who  possessed  all  the  lithe  grace  of 
her  Indian  mother,  the  daughter  of  a 
line  of  chiefs,  made  no  secret  of  her 
affection  for  the  stalwart  woodsman. 
Whenever  he  sat  down  to  rest  and  to 
think,  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  the 
light  footfall,  as  the  girl  silently  stole 
past,  content  if  he  but  gave  her  a 
smile. 

Slowly  Rose  tore  up  the  note  and 
let  the  tiny  fragments  flutter  to  the 
ground.  "Tel,"  he  called,  "come 
here." 

With  the  rich  blood  dyeing  the  light 
tan  of  her  face  the  girl  obeyed,  eyeing 
him  wonderfully.  Rose  had  affected 
a  contempt  for  her  silent  worship.  He 
was  thinking  of  Royston's  courtship. 
It  was  seldom  that  he  spoke;  never 
had  he  called  her  to  him  before. 


PERVERSITY  OF  FATE 


Go 


"Tel,  you  love  me,  don't  you?"  he 
asked.  "To-morrow  we  will  go  and 
see  the  priest.  Father  Raoul  shall 
speak  the  service.    Shall  it  be  so  ? " 

Wonderingly  the  girl  stole  toward 
him  and  raised  his  rough  hands  rev- 
erently to  her  lips. 

Rose  laughed  loudly,  mirthlessly,  as 
he  rose  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
presently  he  went  in  search  of  Pierre, 
to  whom  he  repeated  his  proposal. 

As  if  to  emphasize  the  irony  of 
fate,  promotion  came  quickly  to  Rose, 
now  that  he  no  longer  cared.  From 
foreman  of  the  gang  to  superintend- 
ent, he  rose  with  a  rapidity  that 
caused  Pierre  to  smile  and  murmur 
softly  to  himself: 

"That  girl  Tel  is  mascot  sure,  and 
Jack  Rose  she  is  ver'  lucky  that  she 
has  ol'  Pierre's  daughter  for  her  bride. 
Her  gran'  pere  was  a  big  chief.  She 
is  of  blood  royal." 

Surely  it  seemed  as  if  Jack  was 
lucky  above  his  fellows,  for  Tel 
worked  wonders  in  making  the  simple 
hut  a  home,   and  only  the  gnawing 


thought  of  Marion  saddened  his  con- 
tent. He  had  thought  to  marry  Tel 
and  forget  his  faithless  love;  but,  the 
more  he  strove,  the  more  she  seemed 
to  dominate  his  thoughts. 

And  so  it  was  five  years  later  when 
Le  Blanc  and  Francois  paddled  their 
light  canoe  swiftly  up  the  river  to  the 
lumber  camp.  There  was  a  third 
figure  in  the  frail  craft  and  John 
Rose's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  as  he 
strode  down  to  the  bank  to  welcome 
the  voyageurs. 

"Mrs.  Elrood!"  he  cried  in  surprise 
as  he  lightly  lifted  her  to  the  shore. 

"Not  Marion?"  she  asked  gaily  as 
she  shook  her  skirts,  wrinkled  from 
long  sitting  in  the  canoe.  ' '  Surely  you 
should  have  a  warmer  greeting  for 
one  who  has  traveled  thousands  of 
miles  up  this  horrible  river  just  to 
see  you.  I  thought  the  Mississippi 
was  the  longest  stream,  but  I  know 
better  now." 

"To  see  me?"  echoed  Rose.  "Then 
Mr.  Elrood " 

"Is    dead!"    she    completed,    as    a 


'AND  WHEN   I   SEE   UOYSTON   AND    HIS    FAMILY    I    ENVY    THEM. 


66 


TEE   MOTION    PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


FATHER  RAOUL  SHALL  SPEAK  THE  SERVICE." 


shadow  flitted  across  her  face.  "My 
sacrifice  was  in  vain,  Jack.  Mother 
died  that  winter.  Not  even  the  South 
conld  save  her.  Last  spring  Mr.  El- 
rood  died,  and  I  thought  that — per- 
haps— that  you " 

She  faltered,  but  Jack  did  not  come 

to  her  aid.     Thru  the  leafy  screen  of 

the  forest  he  could  hear  Tel  as  she 

sang  about  her  work. 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  you," 


he  said  quietly.     "Mrs.  Rose  sees  iew 
strangers. ' ' 

' '  Mrs.  Rose !    You  are  married !    Im- 
possible ! ' '  cried  Marion.    ' '  Jack,  dear 

Jack,  surely  you  waited " 

Rose  hung  his  head.  "You  said 
yourself  we  had  waited  too  long,"  he 
reminded.  "It  was  not  that  I  did 
not  care.     I  sought  f orgetfulness. " 

"And   found    it?"    she    cried,    anx- 
iously.    "Oh,  Jack!" 


G8 


THE   MOTION    PICTURE    STORY   MAGAZINE 


Rose  made  no  reply,  but  it  was 
clear  he  had  not  forgotten  that  Marion 
still  reigned  queen  over  his  heart. 

"She  is  your  lawful  wife?"  cried 
Marion,  "or  is  it  one  of  those  mar- 
riages with  an  Indian,  or  a  half-breed  ? 
There  are  many  such  wives — but  the 
union  is  not  legal." 

' '  We  were  married  by  a  priest, ' '  ex- 
plained Rose,  "but  it  didn't  need 
that  to  make  her  my  wife.  She  loves 
me.  She  is  faithful.  She  brought 
me  luck.  She  made  my  home.  She 
trusts  my  promise.  That's  the  hard 
part,  you  see — she  trusts  me;  can  I 
prove  faithless  to  that  trust?" 

"What  is  all  that  to  love?"  cried 
Marion,  contemptuously.  ' '  Jack,  I  am 
a  rich  woman;  a  very  rich  woman. 
She  shall  have  money.  She  can  go  to 
Quebec  or  Montreal.  In  the  novelty 
of  it  she  will  forget.  Perhaps  she 
would  prefer  to  stay  here  and 
marry  one  of  her  own  kind.  It  can 
be  arranged — with  money.  I  have 
that." 

"I  have  money,  were  that  all,"  in- 
terrupted Rose.  "  It 's  not  the  money. 
If  it  were  only  that." 

"You  care  more  for  her  than  you 
do  for  me?"  she  demanded,  jealously. 
' '  I  am  less  to  you  than  this  half-breed 
girl.    You  no  longer  care  ! ' ' 

Rose  caught  her  hand.  "  I  do  care, ' ' 
he  cried.  "There  has  not  been  a  day 
in  all  these  years  that  I  have  not  cared 
— that  the  hurt  has  not  been  here.  In 
my  sleep  I  see  your  face,  I  hear  your 
voice.  Awake! — I  long  for  your  ca- 
ress!" 

Marion  clasped  her  hands  with  joy. 
"Then  my  trip  is  not  in  vain,"  she 
cried.  "Since  we  two  still  love,  no- 
thing else  matters..  You  will  tell  this 
little  half-breed  that  you  are  going 
away.     You  will  soon  forget  her  and 

she " 

The  man  checked  her  with  a  ges- 


ture. "She  must  not  know,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "We  have  made  a  sad 
mistake,  and  nearly  ruined  our  lives, 
dear  heart,  but  it  must  not  touch  her. 
The  good  Father  over  at  the  mission 
has  made  us  man  and  wife.  What 
God  hath  joined  no  man  may  put  asun- 
der, unless  he  pays  the  price.  The 
price  would  fall  on  you  as  well  as  on 
me." 

"I  am  ready  to  pay,  Jack,"  she  cried 
fearlessly. 

Rose  shook  his  head. 
"You  do  not  know  the  cost.  Think 
of  the  price  that  she,  too,  must  pay. 
We  should  have  each  other.  She  would 
be  left  alone.  I  cannot  ask  her  to 
pay.    I  cannot,  I  must  not ! ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  woman  of  the 
cities  looked  into  the  brave,  fearless 
eyes  of  the  man  of  the  woods,  and 
her  own  faltered.  She  saw  that  he 
still  loved  her  with  the  love  that  never 
dies,  but  she  saw  also  that  she  could 
never  win  him.  Above  love  he  placed 
duty — duty  to  the  woman  he  had 
sworn  to  protect.  Did  she  tempt  him 
she  would  gain  only  his  physical  com- 
panionship. He  would  despise  her  for 
causing  him  to  break  his  word. 

At  her  call  the  guides  came,  and 
wonderingly  resumed  their  places  at 
the  paddles.  Thru  the  winding  trail 
his  wife  regarded  the  odd  tableau 
curiously,  then  the  paddles  dipped 
into  the  water  and  strong  strokes 
forced  the  canoe  through  the  still 
waters. 

With  folded  arms  Rose  watched  the 
woman  he  loved  borne  from  him,  and 
then  he  turned  to  the  woman  who 
loved  him.  ' '  The  perversity  of  fate, ' ' 
he  murmured,  recalling  a  letter  writ- 
ten in  the  long  ago. 

"Luck  comes  too  late — but  honor 
stays,"  and  with  his  arm  about  Tel, 
he  turned  back  to  the  cabin  that  she 
had  made  their  home. 


"Whosoever  loves  not  picture,  is  injurious  to  truth,  and  all  the  wisdom  oi 
poetry.  Picture  is  the  invention  of  heaven,  the  most  ancient  and  most  akin 
to  nature.  It  is  itself  a  silent  work,  and  always  one  and  the  same  habit. ' ' — 
Ben  Johnson. 


The  Wizard  of  Sound  and  Sight 


By  W.  H.  Marc 


THOMAS  ALVA  EDISON  was  born  in  Milan,  Ohio,  on  February  11,  1847,  in  a  little 
prosperous  shipbuilding  town.  The  real  teacher  of  his  life  was  his  sympathetic, 
kind,  intelligent  mother,  and  he  has  always  fully  appreciated  her  instruction  and 
comradeship,  which  made  his  early  success  in  life  possible.  It  was  she  who 
stood  up  for  her  boy  when  things  went  wrong  at  school,  and  she  withdrew  him  from 
school  that  she  might  train  him  herself.  At  nine  he  had  read,  or  heard  read,  Hume's 
History  of  England,  the  History  of  the  Reformation  and  Gibbon's  Rome,  with  all  the 
books  upon  electricity  he  could  get. 

At  eleven  he  felt  that  he  would  like  to  earn  his  own  living,  and  the  mother  under- 
stood her  boy  well  enough  not  to  stand  in  his  way.  Then  followed  the  familiar  experi- 
ence of  newspaper-selling  on  the  train,  and  the  little  paper  he  printed  containing  the 
news  that  was  too  late  for  the  evening  papers. 

In  1887  Mr.  Edison  invented  the  Kinetoscope.  The  idea  was  suggested  by  a  toy 
called  the  Zoetrope.  The  first  difficulty  was  that  there  were  no  films  on  the  market 
quick  enough  to  take  the  required  forty  pictures  a  second,  so  the  inventor  had  to 
make  his  own  films.  In  fact,  Mr.  Edison  has  made  so  many  things,  and  is  so  persistent 
in  his  efforts,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  has  been  designated  "the  Wizard  of  Sound  and 
Sight,"  and  recognized  by  many  as  America's  greatest  American. 


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A     SPIRITED     SCENE     FROM     "  THE     BUCCANEERS. 


The  World  Before  Your  Eyes 


By  Prof.  Frederick  Starr,  of  Chicago  University 


I  have  seen  Niagara  thunder  over 
her  gorge  in  the  noblest  frenzy 
ever  beheld  by  man — I  have 
watched  a  Queensland  river  under 
the  white  light  of  an  Australasian 
moon  go  whirling  and  swirling  thru 
strange  islands  lurking  with  bandicoot 
and  kangaroo — I  have  watched  an 
English  railroad  train  draw  into  a 
station,  take  on  its  passengers  and 
then  chug  away  with  its  stubby  little 
engine  thru  the  Yorkshire  Dells, 
past  old  Norman  Abbeys  silhouetted 
against  the  skyline,  while  a  cluster  of 
century-aged  cottages  loomed  up  in 
the  valley  below,  thru  which'  a  yokel 
drove  his  flocks  of  Southdowns — T 
have  been  to  the  Orient  and  gazed 
at  the  water-sellers  and  beggars  and 
dervishes — I  have  beheld  fat  old 
Rajahs  with  the  price  of  a  thousand 
lives  be  jeweled  in  their  monster  tur- 
bans, and  the  price  of  a  thousand 
deaths  sewn  in  their  royal  nightshirts 
as  they  indolently  swayed  in  golden 
howdahs,  borne  upon  the  backs  of 
grunting  elephants — I  saw  a  runaway 
horse  play  battledoor  and  shuttlecock 
with  the  citizens  and  traffic  of  a  little 
Italian  village,  whose  streets  had  not 
known  so  much  commotion  since  the 
sailing  of  Columbus — I  know  how  the 
Chinaman  lives  and  I  have  been  thru 
the  homes  of  the  Japanese — I  have 
marveled  at  the  daring  of  Alpine  to- 
bogganists  and  admired  the  wonder- 
ful skill  of  Norwegian  ski  jumpers — 
I  have  seen  armies  upon  the  battle- 
field and  their  return  in  triumph — I 
have  looked  upon  weird  dances  ind 
outlandish  frolics  in  every  quarter 
of  the  globe,  and  I  didn't  have  to  leave 
Chicago  for  a  moment. 
No  books  have  taught  me  all  these 


wonderful  things — no  lecturer  has  pic- 
tured them — I  simply  dropped  into  a 
moving  picture  theatre  at  various  mo- 
ments of  leisure,  and  at  the  total  cost 
for  all  the  visits  of  perhaps  two  per- 
formances of  a  foolish  musical  show,  I 
have  learned  more  than  a  traveler 
could  see  at  the  cost  of  thousands  of 
dollars  and  years  of  journey. 

Neither  you  nor  I  fully  realize  what 
the  moving  picture  has  meant  to  us, 
and  what  it  is  going  to  mean.  As 
children  we  used  to  dream  of  a  jour- 
ney on  a  magician's  carpet  to  the 
legendary  lands,  but  we  can  rub  our 
own  eyes  now  and  witness  more  tre- 
mendous miracles  than  Aladdin  could 
have  by  rubbing  his  fairy  lamp.  But 
we're  so  matter-of-fact  that  we  never 
think  of  it  that  way.  We're  living  at 
a  mile-a-second  gait  in  the  swiftest 
epoch  of  the  world's  progress — in  the 
age  of  incredibilities  come  true.  We 
fly  thru  the  air — chat  with  our  friends 
in  Paris  by  squirting  a  little  spark 
from  a  pole  on  one  shore  of 'the  At- 
lantic to  another  pole  on  the  other  side, 
and  so  we  take  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  which  our  great-grandfathers 
would  have  declared  a  miracle. 

The  moving  picture  is  making  for 
us  volumes  of  history  and  action — 
it  is  not  only  the  greatest  impulse  of 
entertainment  but  the  mightiest  force 
of  instruction.  We  do  not  analyze 
the  fact  that  when  we  read  of  an 
English  wreck  we  at  once  see  an  Eng- 
lish train  before  us,  or  when  we  learn 
of  a  battle  that  an  altogether  different 
panorama  is  visualized  than  our  for- 
mer erroneous  impression  of  a  hand- 
to-hand  conflict — we  are  familiar  with 
the  geography  of  Europe — we  are  well 
acquainted  with  how  the  Frenchman 


71 


tm -mi 


i  i 


72 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


dresses,  in  what  sort  of  a  home  he 
lives,  and  from  what  sort  of  a  shop 
he  buys  his  meat  and  greens. 

We  take  so  much  for  granted — we 
are  so  thoroly  spoiled  by  our  multiple 
luxuries — that  we  do  not  bestow  more 
than  a  passing  thought  upon  our  ad- 
vantages, because  the  moving  picture 
machine  is  an  advantage — a  tremen- 
dous, vital  force  of  culture  as  well  as 
amusement.  An  economy,  not  only  of 
money  but  of  experiences — it  brings 
the  world  to  us — it  delivers  the  uni- 
verse to  our  theatre  seat.  The  moving 
picture  is  not  a  makeshift  for  the 
playhouse — its  dignity  is  greater — its 
importance  far  beyond  the  puny  func- 
tion of  comedy  and  tragedy.  It  is  a 
clean     entertainment,      lecture      and 


amusement  all  rolled  in  one — in  its 
highest  effort  it  stands  above  litera- 
ture— in  its  less  ambitious  phase 
it  ranks  above  the  tawdry  show 
house.  It  teaches  nothing  harmful 
and  it  usually  teaches  much  that  is 
helpful. 

The  moving  picture  is  not  a  make- 
shift, but  the  highest  type  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  history  of  the  world. 
It  stands  for  a  better  Americanism 
because  it  is  attracting  millions  of  the 
masses  to  an  uplifting  institution, 
drawing  them  to  an  improving  as  well 
as  an  amusing  feature  of  city  life.  Its 
value  cannot  be  measured  now,  but 
another  generation  will  benefit  more 
largely  thru  its  influence  than  we  of 
to-day  can  possibly  realize. 


Notable  Bits  From  Photoplays 


SCENE  FROM  "THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  PONTIAC." 


Love's  Awakening 


First  Love  Is  Not  Always   Best    nor 
Is    the    Race    Always    to    the    Swift 


Hiram  Graham  smiled  as  the  last 
huge  load  of  hay  rolled  into  the 
barnyard,  and  the  haymakers, 
young  men  and  women,  slid  from  atop 
the  load,  the  girls  protesting  with 
many  a  giggling  shriek  that  they 
never  could  jump,  but  suggesting 
that  it  was  very  easy  when  a  pair  of 
strong  arms  waited  to  clasp  them  as 
they  landed. 

It  was  Dave  Allen  who  was  first  off 
the  load  to  hold  out  his  arms  invit- 
ingly to  Jewel  Graham,  but  she 
paused  a  moment,  and  it  was  Jim 
Long  who  secured  the  plump  prize 
and  bore  her  away  in  triumph.  Dave 
was  only  a  farmer's  son,  while  Jim 
was  a  clerk  in  a  village  drug  store. 
He  had  been  "keeping  company" 
with  Jewel  for  several  years  and  Dave 
Allen's  more  quiet  love  making 
availed  him  nothing. 

Perhaps  it  was  those  long  summer 
days  in  the  haying  field,  when  Jim 
begged  a  week  off  to  share  the  fun, 
that  brought  matters  to  a  head,  but  it 
was  not  long  after  when  Jim  and 
Jewel  sought  Hiram  Graham  and  Jim 
asked'  his  approval  of  their  engage- 
ment. 

"I  guess  it's  all  right  if  Jewel  wants 
you,"'  assented  the  shrewd  old  man 
with  a  kindly  smile,  "but  don't  you 
think,  Jim,  that  you  are  wasting  your 
time  here?  Doc  Tanner  told  me  the 
other  day  that  a  smart  young  fellow 
like  you  ought  to  be  able  to  make  his 
way  in  the  city.  They  pay  better 
there,  and  I  guess  Jewel  would  rather 
wait  until  you  can  make  a  home  for 
her  in  the  city." 


"I  guess  you're  right,"  assented 
Jim,  coloring  with  pride  at  the  praise. 
1 '  I  was  thinking  of  that,  and  if  Jewel 
will  wait  I'll  try." 

Hiram  nodded  and  so  it  was  decid- 
ed that  Jim  should  go  to  town.  His 
employer  recommended  him  to  a  city 
friend,  and  the  Hopkinsville  Banner 
in  stilted  praise  congratulated  the  city 
upon  such  an  important  addition  to 
its  captains  of  industry. 

But  Jim  made  good  for  the  most 
sanguine  prophecies.  He  knew  his 
business,  and  the  patrons  of  the  city 
store  took  a  liking  to  the  fresh-faced 
lad,  whose  manner  was  an  odd  blend 
of  country  freedom  and  city  elegance. 
The  young  women,  in  particular, 
found  many  more  errands  calling 
them  to  Stephan's  drug  store,  and 
Stephan  smiled  and  raised  Jim's  sal- 
ary. 

He  was  not  insensible  to  their  flat- 
tery, and  he  responded  readily  to  their 
flirtations,  even  tho  he  was  faithful  in 
thought  to  Jewel ;  but  while  the  oth- 
ers were  content  to  let  it  remain  a 
flirtation,  Yiolet  Ware  had  decided 
upon  a  conquest,  and  bet  a  box  of 
chocolates  with  her  chum  that  she 
would  wring  a  proposal  from  Jim 
within  three  months. 

Violet  was  a  leader  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  her  very  evident  preference 
flattered  Jim ;  but  while  he  felt  him- 
self bound  to  Jewel,  his  resistance  was 
breaking  fast. 

Stephan  was  willing  to  give  him  a 
few  days  off.  and  lie  wired  Jewel  that 
he  wonld  arrive  on  the  evening  train 
the  following  day.     He  felt  that  could 


73 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE    STORY   MAGAZINE 


JEWEL'S    FATHER    SENDS    JIM    TO   THE    CITY   TO    WIN    HIS    WAY. 


he  see  her  again  he  would  forget 
Violet's  fascinations,  but  Violet  was 
not  to  be  denied. 

"Tomorrow's  your  night  off,  isn't 
it?"  she  demanded,  as  she  perched 
herself  on  one  of  the  high  stools  be- 
fore the  soda  fountain.  "We  are  going 
to  have  some  people  in  to  play  euchre. 
Now  don't  say  no.  You  simply  must 
come." 

Jim's  face  clouded.  "I'm  sorry,"  he 
began  slowly,  ' '  but  I  am  going  to  take 


a  vacation  and  go  home  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"To  see  your  sweetheart?"  demand- 
ed Violet  jealously.  "I  know  that  is 
what  it  is.  And  you'll  leave  me  in  the 
lurch,  Jim,  when  I  had  counted  on 
you?  I  made  it  Thursday  because  I 
knew  that  was  your  evening  off.    If 

you  don't  stay  I'll " 

She  did  not  complete  the  sentence, 
but  her  eyes  were  eloquent  of  threat, 
and  of  promise  as  well.    Jim  was  weak 


LOVE'S  AWAKENING 


75 


and  before  she  had  left  it  meant  an- 
other wire  to  Jewel  calling  off  his 
visit.  He  felt  like  a  coward,  but  Vio- 
let was  near  and  Jewel  seemed  very 
far  off. 

There  was  wire  trouble  and  it  was 
not  until  Jewel,  stealing  from  home, 
had  eagerly  paced  the  station  plat- 
form, that  the  telegram  was  given  her. 
Dave  Allen  saw  the  droop  of  her 
shoulders  and  hurried  to  her  side. 
"Bad  news,  Jewel?"  he  asked  with 
sympathy.  "Don't  break  down,  little 
girl;  don't  break  down." 
"I'm  not  going  to,"  she  declared  be- 
tween sobs,  "but  Jim  promised  to 
come  and  then  he  telegraphed  that  he 
couldn't." 

"  Perhaps  he  couldn't,"  urged  Dave, 
generous  to  his  rival,  but  Jewel  shook 
her  head. 

"We  were  going  to  be  married.  He 
could  come  if  he  wanted  to.  It's  some 
girl." 

As  Jewel  turned  toward  home,  the 
tears  would  not  keep  back.  Dave  took 
her  in  his  buggy,  and  with  his  strong 
arm  about  her,  he  offered  consolation 
that  he  sought  to  make  brotherly,  but 
which  none  the  less  had  a  touch  of 
his  hopeless  love  in  it,  and  Jewel 
found  it  very  comforting. 

He  came  again  in  the  morning  and 
together  they  sat  upon  the  porch. 
Hiram,  seeing  them,  smiled  to  him- 
self, for  Dave  always  had  been  his 
favorite. 

The  rural  delivery  driver  came 
down  the  road  in  his  rattling  buggy 


and  dropped  a  letter  in  the  Graham 
box.  Jewel  ran  to  get  it. 

"It's  from  Jim,"  she  announced, 
with  flashing  eyes,  as  she  perched  her- 
self up  on  the  top  step  to  read  it. 

It  was  a  long  letter  and  between  the 
lines  Jewel  could  read  many  things, 
for  Jim  had  written  it  late  the  night 
before  when  he  was  still  smarting 
under  the  thought  of  Violet's  answer 
to  his  proposal, — "Why  I  didn't  know 
you  cared  for  me  that  way,  Jim.  I'm 
so  sorry." 

It  was  a  plea  that  had  worked  be- 
fore, but  Jim  knew  that  he  had  been 
tricked,  and  in  his  eagerness  to  get 
back  what  he  had  lost  he  said  too 
much. 

With  flaming  cheeks  Jewel  folded 
the  letter  and  tucked  it  into  her 
pocket.  Dave  rose  awkwardly  from 
the  steps. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  be  getting  along," 
he  said  slowly,  feeling  that  he  was  in 
the  way. 

"Must  you?"  asked  Jewel  in  a  voice 
that  she  tried  to  make  careless  but 
which  told  it's  tale." 

"I  don't  have  to  until  you  send  me, ': 
he  announced,  as  he  took  his  seat  be- 
side her.  "Will  I  ever  have  to, 
Jewel?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to,  Dave,"  she 
said  with  a  blush,  and  her  father, 
coming  suddenly  upon  them,  smiled 
and  gave  his  blessing.  He  had  always 
had  faith  that  his  little  girl  would 
find  true  love  some  clav.  And  she 
had. 


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Herod  and  the  New  Born  King 


By  nontanye  Perry 


OX  a  late  December  afternoon, 
more  than  nineteen  hundred  years 
ago,  the  road  leading  thru  the 
valley  which  sweeps  up  to  the  twain 
heights  where  Bethlehem  stretches,  was 
thronged  with  a  motley  crowd  of  trav- 
elers. A  decree  of  Caesar  had  ordered 
every  citizen,  with  his  family,  into  the 
city  of  his  birth  to  be  counted  for  taxa- 
tion. Men  on  foot  ran  hither  and 
thither;  men  on  horseback  screamed  to 
men  on  camels;  women  seated  in 
pillions  upon  donkeys  peeped  anxiously 
out  from  their  veils;  children  wailed; 
boys  were  peddling  bread  and  fruits; 
others  were  leading  fractious  sheep  or 
cows;  all  were  talking  shrilly  in  all  the 
tongues  of  Syria. 

At  the  gates  of  a  kahn,  just  outside 
the  city  walls,  a  keeper  was  sitting  on 
a  block  of  cedar,  a  javelin  leaning  on 
the  wall  beside  him.  His  face  and 
manner  were  calm  and  unruffled,  tho 
he  was  besieged  by  a  throng  of  clamor- 
ing men  showing  varied  expressions  of 
impatience,  resentment  or  anxiety. 

"The  kahn  is  already  filled.  There 
remains  not  even  one  place  vacant,"  he 
reiterated  patiently  to  one  group  after 
another,  and  one  after  another  they 
withdrew,  noisily  complaining,  to  make 
for  themselves  camps  as  best  they 
might  on  the  hills  surrounding  the 
city. 

The  winter  afternoon  was  short. 
Shadows  lengthened  over  the  valleys, 
shutting  out  the  peaks  of  Gedar  and 
Gibeah,  darkening  the  terraced  vine- 
yards and  olive  groves.  Nightfall  was 
very  near,  when  a  man,  apparently 
about  fifty  years  of  age  a  look  of  deep 
concern  upon  his  earnest,  kindly   face. 


hurried  a  panting  donkey  up  the  last 
steep  slope  to  the  gate. 

"Can  you  not  give  me  a  place?''  he 
urged;  his  voice  was  singularly  gentle, 
even  though  tinged  with  sharp  anxiety. 
"I  am  Joseph  of  Nazareth  and  this  is 
the  house  of  my  fathers.  I  am  of  the 
line  of  David." 

"Peace  be  with  yon,  Joseph  of  Xaza- 
reth.  I  grieve  that  there  is  not  a  place 
left,  neither  in  the  chambers  nor  in 
the  court,  nor  even  upon  the  roof." 

The  traveler  glanced  toward  the  fig- 
ure of  a  woman,  enveloped  in  a  loose 
robe  of  woolen  stuff,  her  face  hidden 
by  a  white  veil,  who  was  sitting  upon 
the  donkey. 

"It  is  Mary,  my  wife,"  he  said  anx- 
iously. "She  is  very  delicate  and  your 
nights  here  are  cold.  I  cannot  let  her 
lie  out  of  doors,  it  will  kill  her." 

As  he  spoke,  the  woman  pushed  her 
veil  aside,  disclosing  a  face  young  and 
beautiful,  touched  with  a  rare,  exalted 
light. 

"Fear  not,  my  husband."  she  said. 
"no  harm  will  come  to  me." 

Before  either  man  could  speak  again. 
a  slender,  dark-eyed  maiden,  who  had 
crept  up  close  to  the  keeper  and  gazed 
with  wondering  eyes  upon  Mary's  glow- 
ing face,  touched  his  arm  timidly. 
"Father,"  she  said,  and  whispered 
softly. 

"Is  't  so.  little  one?"  the  father  said. 
looking  again  at  the  young  wife  and 
the  anxious,  gentle  face  of  the  husband. 
"Well,  come  you  in.  friends.  Such  as 
1  have,  I  will  give.  Room  you  may 
havc>  in  the  cave.  Shelter  and  warmth 
are  there  and  many  of  your  forefathers 
must    have   lain    there.      'The    mangers 


>  —        ' .       H^rrr-— ;             :tZ.'              #ST 

^   flfc-      H 

-3 

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W  o 

CO  [>. 

Q 


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a  H 


HEROD  AXD  THE  NEW  BORN  KING 


79 


are  yet  as  they  were  in  David's  day. 
Better  a  bed  in  a  stable  than  the  cold 
and  damp  of  the  roadside." 

"Blessings  be  upon  yon/'  spoke 
Joseph,  joyfully:  "may  the  Lord  be 
ever  gracions  to  yon  and  yours." 

Thru  long  courts  and  rough  passage 
ways  the  keeper  led  the  travelers  to  the 
cave,  used  as  a  stable,  but  filled  now 
with  many  wanderers,  grateful  for  the 
place  of  shelter.  Close  to  the  young 
wife's  side  walked  the  dark-eyed 
maiden,  her  eyes  fixed  adoringly  on  the 
radiant  face.  Deftly  she  helped  to 
make  a  bed  from  fresh,  clean  straw 
and  prepare  the  simple  supper. 

"Blessings  be  upon  you,  my  child," 
said  Mary,  laying  a  hand  on  the  dark 
head;  "most  kind  have  you  been  to 
us."  And  the  maid's  face,  as  she  went 
to  her  own  bed  in  the  inn,  glowed  as 
if  an  angel  had  touched  it.  Long  she 
lay  wakeful,  fancying  that  the  lovely, 
gracious  face  of  the  guest  in  the  cave 
smiled  thru  the  darkness.  Sleeping, 
she  dreamed  of  myriads  of  flashing 
angels,  and  wakened  to  find  a  flood  of 
silvery  light  pouring  into  the  narrow 
room.  Half  blinded  by  the  radiance, 
the  maid  crept  to  the  window  and  be- 
held, hanging  just  above  the  kahn,  like 
some  roseate,  scintillating  jewel  sus- 
pended from  the  skies,  a  star  of  mar- 
velous size  and  splendor. 

Wrapping  herself  in  a  mantle,  the 
maid  threw  open  the  window  and 
leaned  upon  the  casement,  and  in  that 
moment  came  plainly  to  her  ears  a 
rapping  at  the  outer  gates. 

"The  watchman  sleeps.  It  may  be 
that  some  one  is  suffering.  I  will  go 
and  see." 

Out  under  the  light  of  the  star  she 
ran  to  the  gates,  and  stood  astonished 
at  the- strange  visitants, — men  clothed 
in  the  skins  of  young  kids,  shod  with 
rude  sandals,  with  scrips  hanging  from 
their  shoulders,  and  curved  staffs,  sym- 
bols of  their  calling. — shepherds  from 
the  hills  of  Judea. 

"Peace  be  unto  you."  spoke  the 
maiden,  fearlessly;  "what  is  your 
desire?" 

"Peace    be    unto    vou    and    unto    all 


within  these  gates,"  they  returned,  with 
one  voice. 

Then  the  youngest  shepherd,  a  rud- 
dy, fair-haired  lad,  stood  forth  from 
the  rest  and  spake  in  the  rapt,  hushed 
tone  of  one  who  sees  visions. 

"We  are  shepherds  abiding  in  the 
fields,  keeping  watch  over  our  flocks 
by  night.  And  an  angel  stood  by  us ' 
and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  shone  around 
us,  and  we  were  sore  afraid.  But  the 
angel  said  unto  us,  Tear  not,  for  be- 
hold I  bring  you  glad  tidings  of  great 
joy,  which  shall  be  to  all  people.  For 
unto  you  is  born  this  day,  in  the  city 
of  David,  a  stranger,  which  is  Christ 
the  Lord.  And  this  shall  be  a  sign 
unto  you :  ye  shall  find  a  babe,  wrapped 
in  swaddling  clothes,  lying  in  a  man- 
ger.' And,  as  we  gazed,  suddenly  there 
was  with  the  angel  a  multitude  of  the 
heavenly  host,  praising  God  and  sing- 
ing, 'Glory  to  God  in  the  highest;  on 
earth  peace,  good  will  towards  men.' 
And  when  the  angels  had  gone  away 
into  heaven  we  said  one  to  another, 
'let  us  go  even  unto  Bethlehem  and  see 
this  thing  which  is  come  to  pass.' '' 

"It  is  my  lady,"  breathed  the  maiden 
in  ecstasy,  "my  gracious,  radiant  lady. 
Come." 

Thru  the  court  yard,  illumined  by 
the  steady  luster  of  the  star,  she  led 
them  to  the  cave.  A  lantern  burned 
dimly,  and  beside  a  manger  Joseph 
bent  over  a  tiny  infant  cradled  upon 
the  arm  of  .Mary. 

"The  Christ  is  born !"  breathed  the 
voungest  shepherd. 

"The  Christ  is  born!"  they  all 
echoed,  falling  upon  their  knees. 

The  people  of  the  kahn  had  awak- 
ened. To  them  the  shepherds  told 
their  tale  and,  awed  by  the  unearthly 
splendor  of  the  star,  they  listened  rev- 
erently. Then  the  shepherds  returned 
to  their  flocks  on  the  hillsides,  and 
back  to  the  watchers  in  the  kahn  float- 
ed the  refrain  which  they  chanted  as 
they  went,  "Glory  to  God  in  the  high- 
est, on  earth  peace,  good  will  towards 
men." 

But  the  dark-eyed  maiden  remained, 
ministering  unto  Mary  and  the  babe 
with  love  and   great  joy. 


HEROD  AND  THE  NEW  BO  EX  KING 


81 


Ten  days  after  the  birth  of  the  babe 
in  Bethlehem,  Herod,  King  of  the 
Jews,  sat  in  a  chamber  of  his  palace 
in  Jerusalem.  Clad  in  robes  of 
sumptuous  purple,  bordered  with  crim- 
son, a  heavy  gold  chain  supporting  a 
dagger  at  his  waist ;  bony  hands,  drawn 
and  knotted  with  pair,  a  face  stamped 
with  vice  and  disease;  fierce,  restless 
eyes,  deep  sunken  under  heavy  brows, — 
this  was  Herod,  hated  and  feared  by 
every  subject  in  his  empire.  Long  had 
he  reigned  in  Jerusalem.  Now,  nearly 
at  the  end  of  life,  seventy  years  of  evil 
deeds  behind  him,  he  guarded  his 
throne  with  ever-increasing  jealousy, 
never  relaxing  his  suspicious  vigilance, 
his  boundless  greed  and  cunning. 

Long  he  sat  pondering,  gloom, 
doubt,  rage,  even  terror,  playing  upon 
his  countenance.  At  last,  as  the 
shadows  gathered,  he  turned  to  an  at- 
tendant. "Bring  lights,  and  send 
Miriam  to  me/'  he  commanded. 

Miriam  came.  A  dark,  voluptuous 
beauty,  at  the  sight  of  whom  Herod's 
face  lost  a  trace  of  its  gloom. 

"Tell  me,  Miriam/'  he  began  abrupt- 
ly, with  no  form  of  greeting,  "what  is 
known  of  the  three  travelers  from  the 
East  who  came  to  our  gates  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"They  are  strange  men/'  replied 
Miriam,  "mounted  upon  great  white 
camels  with  rich  trappings.  Their  ap- 
parel is  sumptuous  and  their  speech 
shows  them  to  be  men  of  learning  and 
culture.  This  I  learned  from  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Guards." 

"And  their  question?"  demanded 
Herod  fiercely,  "what  is  this  question 
which  they  ask?" 

"They  ask,"  said  Miriam,  looking 
fixedly  into  Herod's  angry  eyes,  "where 
is  he  that  is  born  King  of  the  Jews, 
for  we  have  seen  his  star  in  the  East 
and  have  coiug  to  worship  him." 

"The  star  in  the  East!"  repeated 
Herod  contemptuously,  "an  idle  delu- 
sion, a  foolish'  trick  of  the  imagination. 
But  tell  me,  Miriam,  hast  ever  heard 
of  the  old  prophecy  ?" 

"Yes,  often,"  assented  Miriam. 

"This  afternoon,"  the  king  con- 
tinued,   "1    assembled    the    wisest    men 


of  Jerusalem  to  search  the  records  and 
tell  me  concerning  this  prophecy. 
They  say  that  the  child  should  be  born 
in  Bethlehem  of  Judea.  Thus  reads 
the  parchment :  'And  thou  Bethlehem 
in  the  land  of  Judah,  art  not  the  least 
among  the  princes  of  Judah,  for  out 
of  thee  shall  come  a  governor  who  shall 
rule  my  people  Israel."  " 

The  face  of  the  old  king  was  livid 
with  rage  and  despair.  "Has  this 
thing  come  to  pass?"'  he  cried.  "Is  the 
prophecy  fulfilled?  Shall  my  king- 
dom go  from  me  in  my  old  age  ?" 

"Listen,"  said  Miriam,  her  gleam- 
ing, tigerish  eyes  holding  the  old  man's 
fevered  ones.  "Listen  !  if  this  be  true, 
no  rumor  has  yet  gone  abroad  from 
Bethlehem,  but  six  miles  distant. 
There  appears  no  knowledge  of  it  save 
by  these  three  men  of  the  East,  to 
whom  it  has  been  revealed." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  said 
the  king,  fascinated  by  the  intensity  of 
her  gaze. 

"Send  for  them.  Tell  them  the 
child  should  be  born  in  Bethlehem. 
Bid  them  go  there  with  rich  gifts  to 
find  the  babe,  but  secretly  to  return 
to  you  with  tidings.  Charge  them  to 
tell  no  man  in  Jerusalem,  so  that  you 
may  go  and  worship  the  new-born 
king  and  announce  him  to  the  people 
with  due  and  fitting  ceremony.  Then, 
when  they  return  to  you,  if  they  have 
indeed  found  such  a  babe," — -she  bent 
forward,  her  dark  face  afire  with  the 
light  of  a  wild  beast  which  sees  its 
prev — • 

"Yes."  breathed  Herod,  "if  they 
have  indeed  found  such  a  babe, — " 

"If  the  three  wise  men  should  not 
live  to  leave  the  castle,  if  the  ha  be 
should  die  in  infancy,  how  then  can 
thy  throne  be  shaken,  oh,  king?" 

"Wonderful  art  thou,  oh,  woman!" 
exclaimed  Herod  ;  "let  the  travelers  be 
brought  in  at  once." 

Two  hours  later,  high  on  a  tower 
of  the  palace,  Miriam  stood  with  Herod 
looking  out  toward  the  plain  of 
E phi-aim,  beyond  the  gates  of  Joppa. 
Three  tall  figures,  outlined  against  the 
gray  sky.  were  rocking  silently  forward 
over  the  plain. 


UKn 


HEROD  AND  THE  NEW  BORN  KING 


83 


"It  is  well/'*  said  the  king,  "until 
they  return." 

"Until  they  return/'  echoed  Miriam. 

But,  as  they  gazed,  Herod  uttered  a 
cry  of  terror.  "Look,"  he  gasped,  "the 
star !" 

Low  over  the  plain  of  Ephraim  hung 
a  blazing,  refulgent  light,  moving 
steadily  before  the  white,  silent  trav- 
elers, toward  Bethlehem. 

Over  the  kahn  at  Bethlehem  brooded 
peace  and  silence.  In  her  sleep  the 
dark-eyed  maiden  smiled,  dreaming  of 
the  beloved  Mary  and  her  babe,  resting 
peacefully  in  their  manger  bed.  Sud- 
denly the  maiden's  eyes  opened  wide; 
again  the  lustrous  starlight  was  pour- 
ing into  her  room.  "The  star  has  come 
again,"  she  cried,  rapturously;  "what 
strange  visitants  will  it  bring  tonight  ?" 

Peering  forth,  she  beheld  indeed  the 
star,  hanging  above  the  cave,  its  pure, 
warm,  pulsing  light  filling  the  court 
with  a  dazzling  splendor. 

The  midnight  bells  were  tolling,  as 
the  maid  ran  to  the  outer  gate  and 
gazed  eagerly  down  the  steep  road 
winding  up  over  the  plain.  Approach- 
ing the  gate  were  three  tall,  silent  fig- 
ures, ghostly  in  the  starlight.  The 
camels  knelt,  and  with  stately  dignity 
the  riders  dismounted  and  bowed  low 
in  salutation. 

"Peace  be  unto  you,  maiden,  and 
unto  this  house.  From  the  far  East 
have  we  come,  led  by  a  wondrous  light, 
which  is  a  sign  to  us  that  the  Christ  is 
born.  Over  desert  and  plain,  moun- 
tain and  valley  have  we  ridden,  and  lo, 
the  star  hangs  now  above  yon  stable 
door.  Is  there  a  new-born  babe  in  this 
kahn?" 

The  faces  of  the  three  were  tense 
with  eagerness  as  they  bent  for  the 
maid's'  reply.  "Aye/J  she  said  softly, 
"come  and  see."  And  as  they  passed 
thru  the  door  into  the  cave  the  star 
dissolved  into  a  golden,  shimmering 
mist,  floating  far  upward  into  the 
skies. 

Stately,  gorgeously  clothed  with  all 
the  trappings  of  Oriental  splendor, 
they  fell  down  before  the  infant  with 
reverent  awe. 


"The  Saviour!"  they  cried;  "the 
King  who  shall  rule  Israel !" 

From  their  camels  they  brought  rich 
treasures,  gold,  frankincense  and 
myrrh,  which  they  heaped  around  the 
babe,  now  awake  in  Mary's  arms. 

"We  will  return  to  Jerusalem  to- 
night," they  said.  "Let  us  hasten  to 
Herod  that  he  may  come  and  worship 
him  also." 

But  the  maiden  spoke  shyly.  "Xay, 
rest  in  the  inn ;  the  great  Herod  sleeps ; 
tarry  you  here  until  the  dawn.*' 

"The  maiden  speaks  wisely,"  said 
one,  "let  us  rest  in  the  kahn." 

In  the  early  dawn  they  sought  the 
keeper.  "At  your  daughter's  behest, 
we  tarried  in  your  kahn.  It  was  well. 
In  a  dream  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
spake,  commanding  that  we  return  not 
unto  Herod,  but  go  into  our  own  coun- 
try by  another  way." 

Forth  toward  the  rising  sun  they 
rode,  saying  joyously  one  to  another, 
"Xow  is  the  scripture  fulfilled.  Xow 
is  the  time  at  hand.  The  Saviour  is 
born." 

As  the  keeper  fastened  the  gates 
again,  his  daughter  came  running  with 
tears  and  lamentations.-  "She  is  gone," 
she  sobbed,  "my  gracious,  radiant  lady ! 
The  gentle  Joseph  and  the  little  babe 
are  gone — all  gone  !" 

"Grieve  not  so,  child,"  said  the 
father.  "The  mother  was  strong  again  ; 
doubtless  the  Nazarene  was  impatient 
to  return  to  his  home,  though  I  under- 
stand not  their  going  secretlv,  by 
night." 

"To  go  without  one  word  to  me," 
sobbed  the  maiden,  "when  I  loved 
her  so." 

"Something  strange  was  there  about 
them,"  said  the  keeper.  "Twice  did  the 
star  appear,  guiding  strange  visitors 
to  the  babe.  We  shall  hear  of  them 
again." 

But  the  maiden  would  not  be  com- 
forted. Daily  she  mourned  for  the 
mother  and  babe.  Nightly  she  lay  gaz- 
ing into  the  darkness  seeing  in  fancy 
tin1  star,  the  shepherds,  the  wise  men 
with  their  rich  gifts,  the  young  mother 
witli  the  rapt,  exalted  look,  holding  the 
babe. 


jMJ  %, 

K  J$ 

J?C 

-c^i:    . 

^S^cf 

. 

..  .  ;..  ••.  . 

HEROD  AND  THE  NEW  BORN  KING 


85 


A  week  passed.  Then  as  the  maiden 
sat  with  her  father  at  the  gate,  sudden- 
ly there  came  the  sound  of  wild  up- 
roar within  the  village  walls;  clamor 
of  brazen  trumpets,  hoarse  cries  of 
rage  and  command,  shrieks  of  children, 
and  over  all  the  anguished  wailing  of 
women, — "Our  children,  our  children, 
give  us  back  our  babes !" 

Five  soldiers,  with  armor  blazing  in 
the  sun,  swords,  unsheathed  and  drip- 
ping, swooped  down  upon  the  kahn. 
"Open  your  gates,  in  the  king's  name,'' 
they  shouted,  and  rushed  past  the  trem- 
bling keeper  into,  the  court,  with  fiend- 
ish cries.  One,  younger  and  slighter 
than  the  rest,  stayed  for  a  moment  and 
looked  kindly  at  the  half -fainting 
maiden. 

"Fear  not,  it  is  babes  we  seek.  All 
children  of  Bethlehem  and  of  the  bor- 
ders thereof,  two  years  old  and  under, 
was  Herod's  decree.  I  like  not  the 
task.  Two  babes  of  my  own  have  I 
in  Jerusalem.  But  when  the  king- 
commands,  what  shall  a  soldier  do?" 

"But  why  such  monstrous  deed  ?" 
queried  the  keeper. 

"How  should  I  know?  Herod's 
wrath  is  upon  Bethlehem.  I  know  not 
why.  Shall  a  soldier  say  'why'  to  his 
king?" 

Finding  no  babes  in  the  kahn,  the 


soldiers  rushed  away  again.  The 
clamor  and  the  tumult  died  away  in 
the  village,  save  for  the  wailing  of  the 
desolate  mothers. 

"Father;'  spake  the  maiden,  "if  my 
lady  had  been  here,  the  little  babe  must 
have  been  slain."  She  paused  for  a 
moment,  a  look  of  trust  and  compre- 
hension stealing  over  her  childish  face. 
"Do  you  not  understand  now,  my 
father?  The  angel  who  commanded 
the  three  travelers  not  to  return  to 
Herod  warned  the  Nazarene  to  flee 
with  the  child  at  night." 

"I  doubt  i':  not,"  said  the'  keeper; 
"who  knows  but  the  star  returned  to 
guide  them  to  a  safe  shelter." 

That  night,  by  her  narrow  window, 
facing  eastward,  the  dark-eyed  maiden 
knelt  to  pray  Jehovah's  blessing  upon 
the  little  family  of  Xazareth.  And  lo, 
as  she  knelt,  her  eyes  were  touched 
with  new  vision. 

Far  away,  under  a  sky  bright  with 
myriads  of  flashing  stars,  the  great 
figure  of  the  Sphinx  rose  from  a 
limitless  sea  of  sand,  calm,  majes- 
tic, symbolic  of  the  power  which 
endures  turnout  all  ages.  At  the  base 
lay  Joseph;  and,  higher  up,  nestled 
close  against  the  silent,  protecting  fig- 
ure, Mary,  the  little  babe  in  her  arms, 
slept  peacefully. 


"^o 


Stage  Fright  in  Pictures 


Some  of  the  honored  veterans  of  the  stage  are  to  be  found  in  the  stock 
companies  of  the  motion  picture  studios,  and  some  of  them  declare  that  they 
suffer  more  from  singe  fright  in  the  pictures  than  when  appearing  before  an 
audience.  Ralph  Dclmore,  when  with  The  Third  Degree  last  season,  appeared 
in  a  special  production  and  declared  that  he  was  not  only  suffering  from  stage 
fright  but  that  this  sensation  grew  more  strong  with  the  progress  of  the 
picture  until,  in  the  final  scenes,  he  was  badly  broken  up  before  his  cue  came 
to  enter. 

Almost  all  of  the  players  find  it  hard  the  first  few  limes  they  appear  in 
street  scenes,  but  they  soon  out  wear  their  nervousness,  and  grow  to  regard  the 
trips  into  the  country  as  everyday  picnics. 


*v  *  . 


........... 


H,<:y-m  ,i 


J 


The  Golden  Supper 


From  the  Poem  of  Lord  Tennyson 


L 


ionel  !  You  love  Lionel  ? ' ' 
For  answer  Camilla  hid  her 
blushing  cheek  against  the 
rough  fabric  of  Julian's  doublet,  and 
the  simple  action  told  more  eloquently 
than  words  that  to  her  he  was  but 
the  cousin  and  foster  brother.  In  a 
glance  and  a  word  the  dream  of  years 
had  vanished. 

Her  mother  dead  in  childbirth,  Ca- 
milla had  known  no  mother  but  his 
own,  and  she  had  shared  her  father 
with  him  in  return.  As  sister  and 
brother  they  had  grown  to  youth,  and 


the  simple  affection  of  the*  girl  had 
found  a  rich  return  in  Julian's  love, 
a  love  so  strong  it  had  not  seemed 
that  words  were  needed. 

And  now,  as  a  sister  confides  in  her 
brother,  she  had  confessed  her  love 
for  Lionel,  and  poor  Julian  found 
the  world  suddenly  grown  grej1-  and 
cold. 

But  Lionel  found  words  to  tell  his 
love,  and  soon  their  troth  was 
pledged,  and  only  Julian  took  no 
pleasure  in  the  £act.  He  made  ex- 
cuse to  seek  the  wilds,   and  tho  his 


LIONEL  AND  CAMILLA  IN  THEIR  GARDEN, 

87 


THE   MOTIOX   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


LIONEL    LEADS    THE    BRIDE    TO    HIS    OWN    HOME. 


absence  robbed  the  marriage  of  one 
great  joy  to  Camilla,  she  did  not 
realize  that  it  was  a  hopeless  love  that 
kept  him  from  the  feast. 

"When  she  was  gone,  he  came  home 
again,  bnt  sadly  changed,  and  found 
his  greatest  pleasure  in  long  walks 
among  the  hills :  for,  he  was  possessed 
by  visions,  in  which  it  seemed  that 
the  wedding  peal  was  followed  by  the 
toll  for  death,  and  this,  in  turn,  by 
wedding  bells  again. 

So  persistent  was  the  vision  that 
he  fought  down  his  desire  to  leave 
the  land  and  to  journey  in  strange 
countries  that  he  might  forget  his 
grief,  and  he  lingered  on  in  the  home 
that  had  been  theirs. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed.  Not 
onee  had  Julian  seen  his  cousin,  for 
he  felt  that  to  look  upon  her  face 
again  would  only  open  the  old 
wounds,  and  he  kept  close  at  home 
until  the  dreadful  day,  when  gently 
his  mother  broke  to  him  the  news 
that  Camilla  was  no  more. 

At  least  a  part  of  the  vision  had 


come  true,  for  the  knell  had  indeed 
followed  the  marriage  chimes;  and 
with  bowed  head  and  heavy  heart 
Julian  sought  Lionel,  who  had  been 
his  friend,  to  share  his  grief. 

For  three  days  the  fair  young  bride 
had  lain  in  that  last  sleep,  and  now 
the  time  had  come  to  carry  her  to 
the  vault  wherein  her  mother  lay. 

No  casket  shrouded  the  lithe  form, 
for  in  that  land  it  was  the  custom  to 
lay  the  bier  within  a  niche  in  the 
vault,  and  slowly  Julian  followed 
the  sad  procession  that  bore  her  to  the 
tomb. 

His  tears  were  natural,  for  was  he 
not  the  foster  brother  of  the  dead? 
So  he  and  Lionel  mingled  their  grief 
above  the  still  vision  that  seemed  the 
sleep  of  Jife  instead  of  death.  Then 
the  mourners  went  their  way,  leaving 
the  newly  dead  among  the  ashes  of 
the  old,  and  Julian  rushed  into  the 
forest  that  so  often  had  been  the 
sanctuary  of  his  grief. 

But  he  came  again  that  night  to 
the  city  of  the  dead.     In  life  Camilla 


TEE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


89 


had  been  denied  him,  but  now  the 
dead  was  his;  and,  stealing  into  the 
vault,  he  struck  a  light  that  showed 
him  in  fleeting  flare  his  path  to  the 
cold  marble  where  lay  Camilla.  The 
moon  from  a  vault  high  up  lighting 
the  calm  face,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
face  of  one  that  still  lived. 

Julian  bent  and  kissed  the  cold 
lips — his  first  tender  kiss  of  love,  and 
it  seemed  that  the  softly  curving 
mouth  had  not  the  marble  chill  of 
death,  but  the  velvet  warmth  of  life. 
With  strange  persistence  the  thought 
clung  that  she  still  lived,  and  his 
trembling  hand  sought  the  snowy 
breast. 

It  could  not  be  a  delusion — faint 
but  steady  the  blood  seemed  still  to 
pulse  through  the  veins!  Half -mad 
with  doubt  and  fear  he  looked  again 
upon  the  peaceful  face.  An  eyelid 
quivered  and  the  first  faint  flush  of 
life  tinged  the  marble  of  her  cheek 
and  throat. 

With  a  great  cry  he  caught  her 
up,  and,  wrapping  her  in  his  cloak. 


bore  her  to  his  mother's  home.  More 
than  once  on  the  long  journey  he  was 
forced  to  sit  and  rest,  but  always  he 
held  the  still  form  in  his  arms,  half 
fearful  yet  that  he  had  not  wrested 
her  from  death. 

His  mother  started  at  the  appari- 
tion, as  Julian  staggered  into  the  hall 
bearing  his  lovely  burden ;  but  now 
the  breast  heaved  faintly,  the  tinge 
of  life  was  more  pronounced,  and  as 
the  dawn  drew  nigh,  the  mother 
ceased  her  ministrations;  for  the 
trance  was  ended  and,  weak  and 
spent,  Camilla  lay  like  a  broken  lily 
nursed  again  to  bloom. 

G-ently  they  told  her  of  her  trance, 
and  of  the  burial,  and  she  gave  a  little 
cry  of  surprise  and  disappointment. 
"And  was  he  so  quick  to  let  me  go?" 
she  asked,  and  the  look  of  agony  in 
her  eyes  cut  like  a  knife  her  brother- 
lover's  heart,  even  while  it  bade  him 
hope  that  he  might  yet  keep  her  for 
his  own. 

This  hope  was  soon  dispelled  \>y  her 
demands  that  Lionel  be  sent  for,  but 


JULIAN  LOOKS  HIS  LAST  UPON  HIS  LOVE. 


90 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE 


the  sorrowing  man  had  left  his  home 
to  wander  with  his  grief. 
"He  will  return,"  Camilla  said,  with 
faith,  "and  when  he  does,  yon,  who 
gave  me  back  my  life,  shall  give  me 
back  to  him." 

Silently  Jnlian  left  the  room  and 
took  to  horse- lest  his  temptation  be 
too  great,  but  he  left  word  that  a 
summons  might  reach  him  when 
Lionel  was  returned. 

Meanwhile  another  life,  brought 
from  the  tomb,  came  into  being;  and 


in  grateful  recognition  Camilla  named 
her  son  after  Julian,  and  this  was  his 
reward. 

Then  Lionel  was  brought  back  from 
his  seclusion  by  the  sea,  where  he  had 
been  living  as  a  hermit;  and  Julian 
made  a  feast  for  him,  a  banquet  so 
stupendous  that  it  had  no  equal. 

With  lavish  hand  roses  were  strewn 
in  garlands  over  the  hall,  and  the 
table  gleamed  and  glittered  with  gold 
and  precious  stones  set  in  Venetian 
crystal.     A  huge  portrait  of  Camilla, 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


91 


draped  in  black,  seemed  to  lend  the 
presence  of  the  original  to  the  feast ; 
and,  when  the  guests  had  done,  Julian 
rose  to  speak. 

"It  is  a  Persian  custom,"  he  be- 
gan, "when  greatest  honor  would  be 
done  a  guest,  to  lay  before  him  every 
treasure  of  the  host." 

He  paused  and  all  the  guests  ap- 
plauded the  idea;  but  Julian  raised 
his  hand  for  silence  and  went  on. 

"The  custom  carries  further.  When 
the  guest  is  honored  to  the  utmost, 
the  host  brings  that  which  is  thrice 
dearest  to  his  heart.  But  first  I  ask  a 
question. 

"I  knew  a  man  who  had  been  served 
for  years  by  a  faithful  slave  who, 
now  grown  old  and  weak,  was  thrust 
into  the  street  to  die.  There  came 
another  man  who  pitied  his  estate, 
took  him  to  his  home  and  nursed  him 
back  to  health.  Now  to  which  man — ■ 
the  one  who  cast  him  forth  to  die,  or 
to  the  one  who  saved  from  death — ■ 
did  that   old  slave  belong?" 

Julian  paused,  and  with  his  silence 


the  debate  began.  Some  argued  for 
the  owner,  but  the  rest  pleaded  for 
the  man  who  had  saved  the  slave's 
life,  declaring  that  he  who  owned  the 
slave  had  cast  him  aside  as  worthless 
while  the  other  had  beneficently  ren- 
dered him  of  value. 

At  last  they  turned  to  Lionel,  who 
was  learned  in  law,  and  left  the  point 
to  him. 

"No  point  of  law  holds  good,"  was 
his  reply.  "By  all  the  claims  of  love 
and  gratitude  the  slave  belongs  to  him 
who  saved — not  to  the  one  wTho  cast 
away. ' ' 

Julian  smiled,  and,  turning  to  a 
friend,  made  sign  to  him  to  bring 
Camilla  in. 

She  came,  clothed  as  a  bride  with 
wondrous  veil,  and  yet,  unlike  a  bride, 
she  bore  the  rosy  infant  in  her  arms. 
"Now  are  you  fully  honored,"  said 
Julian  with  a  smile,  "for  you  behold 
all  that  I  hold  most  dear;"  and  with 
a  courtly  bow  he  led  her  to  a  chair 
beside  Lionel. 

A  murmur  of  surprise  swept  over 


JULIAN'S    GIFT    TO    HIS    GUEST. 


92 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


the  hall.  She  was  so  like  her  picture 
that  some  said  that  Camilla  must  have 
had  a  sister  who  had  come  to  take  her 
place;  but  others  called  her  a  cousin, 
and  still  others  thought  her  some 
woman  from  a  foreign  clime  whose 
marvelous  likeness  to  Lionel's  dead 
bride  had  led  Julian  to  bring  her  to 
his  home. 

Questions  came  thick  and  fast,  but 
Camilla  made  no  reply,  and  when 
they  asked  her  if  she  was  dumb,  it 
was  Julian  who  answered  for  her. 
"She  is  dumb  because  she  stands, 
like  that  poor  slave  of  whom  we  lately 
spoke,  obedient  to  the  master,  who,  by 
your  own  decree,  has  every  right. 
Now  shall  I  excel  the  Persian,  for  I 


give,  to  my  beloved  guest,  that  which 
I  hold  most  dear!" 

Simply  he  told  the  story  of  his  love 
for  the  foster  sister  that  'had  shared 
his  childhood  days,  told  of  the  vision 
of  the  bells  that  had  rang,  first  mar- 
riage, then  death,  and  then  joy  again. 
Told  of  her  trance,  of  his  visit  to  the 
vault,  of  her  return  to  life,  the  birth 
of  her  young  son,  and,  then,  rising, 
led  to  Lionel  the  bride  he  thought  was 
dead. 

And  with  the  climax  of  the  Golden 
Feast,  Julian  turned  from  the  hall, 
with  but  a  single  friend,  and  then 
left  the  country,  that  he  might  not 
see  the  happiness  he  had  so  generous- 
ly given  back  to  his  friend. 


The  Picture  Play  as  an  Educator 

Bv  Ada  L.  Barrett 


There  is  no  doubt  that  the  picture 
play  has  come  to  stay,  and  that  it  is 
destined  to  be  one  of  the  most  potent 
factors  in  education.  The  stereopticon 
has  long  enjoyed  the  favor  of  both 
church  and  school,  and  the  moving  pic- 
ture, its  worthy  successor,  is  peculiarly 
fitted  to  further  the  work  of  education 
in  the  simplest  possible  way.  A  picture 
speaks  to  all;  it  is  a  language  under- 
stood by  all;  it  requires  no  spoken  or 
written  words  to  be  understood.  Why 
is  it  that  the  moving  picture  shows  are 
frequented  by  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  persons  of  all  ranks — the  well  edu- 
cated as  well  as  the  most  ignorant? 
Because,  in  the  first  place,  the  picture 
attracts  the  eye,  and,  by  a  quick  suc- 
cession of  motions  in  that  picture,  the 
story  is  told.  No  words  are  needed; 
the  story  speaks  for  itself  to  every- 
body in  the  audience,  whether  they 
speak  the  language  of  the  country  or 
not. 

A  child  is  like  a  foreigner ;  he  has 
to  learn  the  history  of  his  own  country, 
and  that  of  others.     He  will  pore  over 


a  history  of  the  United  States  for  a 
year,  and  by  the  end  of  that  time  he 
will  have  a  confused  knowledge  of 
events  jumbled  together  with  dates 
which  he  only  half  remembers;  but 
send  him  to  a  motion  play  illustrating 
that  history,  and  he  will  come  home 
impressed  with  what  he  has  seen,  and 
he  will  remember  it.  It  is  then  he  will 
be  willing  to  go  to  dry  history  and 
study  for  himself.  And  why?  Be- 
cause he  has  an  incentive  to  do  so.  The 
stirring  scenes  have  been  portrayed  be- 
fore him,  and  when  he  reads  or  studies 
that  history,  his  mind's  eye  will  see 
each  scene  vividly.  The  motion  play, 
therefore,  will  not  only  prove  a  help 
to  educators  in  fixing  certain  facts  on 
the  minds  of  their  audience,  but  will 
also  serve  as  a  stimulant  to  further 
exertion,  which  would  be  entirely  lack- 
ing otherwise.  All  children  like  pic- 
tures. Any  child  will  pick  up  an  illus- 
trated book  of  study  sooner  than  an 
unillustrated  one,  and  that  is  why  there 
is  such  a  demand  for  illustrated  books 
for  children. 


A  REPUBLICAN   MARRIAGE 


By  Qo\j  Mason 


lovely  countenance  of  the  fair  Helene 
as  she  drew  bridle  at  the  cross  roads 
which  separated  her  estates  from  the 
municipality  of  Angers,  Maine  et 
Loire.  That  section  of  the  country 
was  comparatively  quiet,  and  heard  but 
subdued  mutterings  of  the  distant 
storm.  -As  the  lady  hesitated  over  her 
choice  of  roads,  a  ragged  peasant  ac- 
companied by  two  children,  whose  tat- 
tered garments  scarcely  concealed  their 
nakedness,  approached  her  prancing 
steed.  He  held  a  soiled  paper,  black- 
ened at  the  folds,  in  his  gnarled  and 
knotted  hands. 


THE  Countess  Helene  de  la  Croix 
swayed  her  slim  body  gracefully 
to  the  caracoling  of  her  horse, 
while  her  cousin  Cyril  looked  on  ad- 
miringly. She  was  indeed  fair  to  look 
upon  with  her  white  skin  and  great 
dark  eyes,  and  the  gaily  clad  group  of 
servants  riding  at  a  respectful  distance 
followed  the  glances  of  the  young 
seigneur.  It  was  early  in  the  troublous 
year  of  1789,  the  year  of  the  fall  of 
the  Bastille.  Sanscullotism  was  flam- 
ing thruout  the  land,  and  the  Eepubli- 
can  guard  was  already  organizing. 
But  no  trace  of  care  appeared  on  the 


IF  THE  GRACIOUS  LADY  PLEASES,  THIS  IS  NAUGHT  BUT  A  LITTLE   PETITION  WHICH 
GIVES    US    LEAVE   TO   ORGANIZE." 


93 


94 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"If  the  gracious  lady  pleases/'  he 
ventured,  "this  is  naught  but  a  little 
petition  which  gives  us  leave  to  organ- 
ize and  defend  our  poor  homes  from 
the  bandits.  The  lady's  signature 
would  carry  so  much  weight " 

The  young  Countess  shook  her  head 
impatiently. 

"I  tell  you,  Jacques,"'  she  replied, 
"as  I  have  said  to  all  of  them,  that  you 
must  depend  upon  us  and  the  troops  of 
His  Majesty  the  King  to  keep  peace  in 
the  land.  What  can  a  crowd  of  dirty 
peasants  do  against  armed  men?  Once 
and  for  all,  no  !" 

She  put  aside  the  paper  disdainfully 
with  her  whip.  The  Countess  must 
not  be  judged  hard-hearted  for  a  girl 
of  twenty-two.  The  relations  of  the 
last  bewildered  immigrant  who  has 
been  but  ten  minutes  on  our  soil  with 
the  President  of  the  United  States  are 
intimate  compared  to  those  between 
the  French  aristocrats  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century  and  the  peasants.  The 
gulf  between  them  was  so  vast  that  it 
is  almost  beyond  the  conception  of  the 
present  world  in  which  a  man  may 
aspire  to  anything.  The  young 
Countess  spoke  as  she  had  been  taught. 
It  seemed  to  her  an  immutable  law  of 
nature.  Her  next  words  proved  her 
kindness  of  heart. 

"But,  Jacques,"  she  said  gently, 
"you  must  clothe  your  children.  They 
are  in  rags ;  they  must  be  cold." 

She  took  her  purse  from  her  girdle, 
and  flung  the  peasant  some  silver 
coins.  He  grasped  at  them  eagerly, 
and  his  look  was  grateful  but  still  de- 
termined. 

"The  gracious  lady  is  kind,"  he  mut- 
tered stubbornly,  "but  I  am  but  one 
whom  you  see.  How  shall  the  thou- 
sands you  do  not  see  clothe  their  chil- 
dren and  guard  their  homes?" 

He  thrust  the  petition  at  her  again, 
and  even  caught  hold  of  a  fold  of  her 
dress  in  his  eager  supplication.  A 
wave  of  indignation  passed  over  the 
Countess.  She  felt  polluted  by  the 
plebeian  touch.  Angrily  reining  in 
her  pawing  horse,  she  gave  him  a 
swift  cut  with  her  ricling-crop.  The 
next   minute   she   was   vanishing  in   a 


cloud  of  dust  followed  by  her  cousin 
and  jeering  servants. 

The  old  man  raised  his  knotted  fist, 
and  shook  it  in  helpless  imprecation. 

"You  are  proud,  my  lady,"  he  mut- 
tered fiercely,  "but  the  time  will  come, 
the  time  will  come !" 

The  Countess  Helene  rode  blythely 
on,  unconscious  of  the  brewing  storm. 
Already  she  had  forgotten  the  addi- 
tional straw  that  she  had  added  to  the 
smouldering  flame  of  discontent.  She 
was  far  more  exercised  when  her  hand- 
some steed  stumbled  on  a  stone  in  the 
road.  She  pulled  it  up  sharply,  but 
when  it  moved  again,  it  was  with 
an  obvious  limp.  A  scarlet-coated 
equerry  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant, 
examining  the  horse's  feet. 

"What  is  it,  Jean?"  she  questioned 
sharply.  "I  never  knew  Eeuil  to 
stumble  so." 

"Alas,  my  mistress,  the  horse  has 
cast  a  shoe." 

The  beautiful  girl  bit  her  lips  with 
vexation. 

"And  we  have  not  yet  had  a  single 
gallop,  cousin,"  she  said.  "Is  there  no 
blacksmith  who  dwells  nearby?" 

"Bernard  le  Fer  is  just  across  the 
river,"  said  Jean.  "He  is  a  pretty 
hand  at  the  forge  and  anvil." 

"Come,"  said  the  Countess.  "We 
will  have  our  ride  out  yet." 

Bernard  le  Fer  was  a  magnificent 
"animal."  He  had  not  felt  the  pinch 
of  poverty  like  the  peasants  about  him, 
for  in  that  age  of  iron  when  the  chief 
arguments  of  mankind  were  swords 
and  guns,  he  had  no  lack  of  work  for 
his  smithy.  And  in  all  the  country- 
side none  wielded  the  hammer  as  cun- 
ningly as  he.  Even  in  repose  the  great 
corded  muscles  stood  out  on  his  arms, 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  as  he  sat  on  a 
rock  near  his  rude  shed  reading  a  book. 
For  if  he  had  not  felt  the  pinch  of 
poverty  he  had  seen  it  and  sympa- 
thized. Many  a  hard-earned  penny 
had  found  its  way  from  the  pocket  be- 
neath his  sooty  leather  apron  to  the 
grateful  palms  of  his  peasant  neigh- 
bors. And  great,  inchoate  thoughts 
were  slowly  trying  to  formulate  them- 
selves in  his  handsome  head.  Why -all 
this  inequality?     Why  should  one  per- 


A  REPUBLICAN  MARRIAGE. 


95 


son  be  well  fed  and  warmly  clad  while 
so  many  others  went  shivering  and 
hungry?  The  book  in  his  hand  was 
helping  him  to  formulate  these 
thoughts,  when  he  started  up  suddenly 
at  the  sound  of  the  approaching  caval- 
cade. Bernard  bowed  low,  but  not 
without  a  certain  dignity. 

The  Countess  scarcely  nodded,  and 
it  was  Jean  the  equerry  who  explained 
their  predicament,  Bernard  turned 
silently  to  his  bellows,  as  the  company 
dismounted.  The  Countess  strolled 
idly  to  the  boulder  where  Bernard  had 
been  sitting,  and  picked  up  the  book 
which  lay  upon  its  face.  Her  expres- 
sion changed  as  she  read  the  title. 
What  right  had  this  dull  peasant  to  be 
reading  Le  Gontrat  Social  of  Jean 
Jacques  Eousseau,  the  book  which  was 
known  to  be  fanning  the  flame  of  dis- 
content just  as  his  bellows  were 
making  the  fire  leap  up  and  up  to  a 
white  and  whiter  heat?  There  was 
but  one  disposition  to  be  made  of  it. 
She  tore  it  across  angrily  with  her  slim 
white  hands,  and  cast  it  in'  blaz- 


ing forge.  Perhaps  the  cords  in  Bern- 
ard's neck  stood  out  a  trifle  more 
prominently.  It  may  be  that  his  mus- 
cles tightened.  What  can  one  tell 
about  these  surly  peasants?  But  he 
made  no  other  sign  as  he  continued 
silently  about  his  work. 

"How  dare  you  read  that  book?" 
exclaimed  the  Countess  angrily. 

His  lowered  eyes  were  raised  to  her 
face.  They  lit  up  with  a  strange,  sud- 
den glow  like  a  faint  reflection  from 
the  fires  of  his  forge,  but  he  answered 
never  a  word.  Satisfied  that  his 
silence  was  due  to  fear,  and  content 
with  the  reproof  that  she  had  admin- 
istered, the  Countess  turned  to  chat 
with  her  escort.  Their  conversation 
was  punctuated  with  ringing  blows  on 
the  anvil. 

The  horse  was  shod,  and  Bernard 
led  it  over  to  its  mistress.  She  was 
seated  on  the  bench  beside  the  door, 
absently  plucking  the  wild  flowers 
which  grew  at  her  feet.  She  rose 
gracefully  at  his  approach,  tossed  him 
a  coin,  and  placed  her  slim  foot  in  her 


BERNARD  TURNED  SILENTLY  TO  HIS  BELLOWS  AS  THE  COMPANY  DISMOUNTED. 


96 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


cousin's  hand  to  mount.  A  few  of  the 
flowers  were  still  clutched  in  her  hand, 
but  she  tossed  them  lightly  from  her  as 
she  cantered  away.  Bernard  stood 
looking  after  her  for  an  instant.  Then 
he  stooped  and  snatched  up  the  for- 
saken flowers. 

"This  is  madness,  madness/'  he  mut- 
tered. 

Nevertheless  he  crushed  them  to  his 
lips,  and  then  thrust  them  inside  his 
tunic  next  to  his  mighty,  laboring 
chest. 

The  Countess  was  destined  never  to 
complete  her  ride.  The  overcast  sky 
had  suddenly  burst  its  bounds,  and  the 
rain  descended  and  the  winds  blew, 
and  the  Countess  took  refuge  in  an  old 
hunting  lodge.  Being  a  luxurious 
Countess,  she  dispatched  her  servants 
in  the  teeth  of  the  storm  to  fetch  her 
fresh  raiment  and  food;  and  beguiled 
the  time  of  waiting  bandying  idle 
pleasantries  with  her  enamored  cousin. 
The  lightning  still  glared,  and  the  rain 
continued  to  patter  at  the  casements 
after  their  supper  together,  and  the 
fair  Helene  pleaded  fatigue,  and  with- 
drew to  her  room. 

A  more  charming  sight  could  scarce 
be  imagined  than  Helene  de  la  Croix 
in  a  lace  negligee,  lying  indolently  on 
the  couch  before  the  fire.  Her  dainty 
slippers  peeped  shyly  from  beneath  the 
hem  of  her  trailing  wrap,  and  she  held 
a  book  in  her  slim  white  hands.  A 
gleam  of  amusement  flitted  across  her 
countenance,  followed  by  a  tiny  patric- 
ian yawn.  She  laid  down  the  book, 
and  closed  her  eyes.  Outside  the  storm 
raged  with  unabated  violence,  but  the 
Countess  quietly  slept.  A  vivid  flash 
of  lightning  was  followed  by  a  thun- 
derous crash.  The  little  Countess  slept 
peacefully  on.  A  curl  of  smoke  puffed 
in  thru  the  half-open  casement.  Still 
the  Countess  slept. 

On  the  lawn  outside  a  fast  gathering 
crowd  of  peasants  were  wildly  gesticu- 
lating. Flames  were  bursting  from 
all  of  the  lower  windows  and  mounting 
higher  at  every  puff  of  the  wind. 

"She  is  there !"  cried  a  peasant. 
"Our  Countess  is  within  !" 

"None  can  save  her,"  said  another. 
"It  is  death  to  enter.     Look!" 


As  he  spoke,  Cyril  de  la  Croix  burst 
thru  the  flaming  door  of  the  building. 
He  was  but  half  clad,  and  reeling 
blindly  from  the  smoke;  but  as  he  ran 
he  plunged  frantically  into  his  pockets, 
and  brought  forth  his  hands  fairly 
dripping  with  gold  coins. 

"A  hundred,  a  thousand,  ten  thou- 
sand Louis  to  him  who  will  save  my 
cousin,"  he  clamored. 

They  drew  back  in  affright,  and  no 
man  answered  him. 

"Quick!  Quick!"  he  begged.  "I 
will  make  any  man's  widow  rich. 
Cattle,  will  you  let  the  Countess 
burn  ?" 

"Go  back  and  burn  yourself," 
growled  a  peasant  surlily. 

Flying  madly  across  the  lawn  with 
huge  strides  of  his  powerful  legs  came 
Bernard  le  Fer. 

"Where  is  she  ?"  he  shouted  as  he 
came.  "In  God's  name  where  is  the 
little  Countess?" 

"Within!  Within!"  cried  Cyril 
eagerly.     "Ten  thou— — " 

His  words  were  lost  to  Bernard's 
ears.  The  blacksmith  had  dashed 
thru  the  crumbling  doorway. 

The  little  Countess  awoke  with  a 
cough.  Something  seemed  to  be 
strangling  her  breathing.  What  was 
that !  The  room  was  filling  with 
smoke.  A  forked  flame  leaped  up  op- 
posite the  casement  as  she  struggled 
blindly  to  her  feet.  She  staggered  to 
the  window,  but  the  belching  smoke 
drove  her  back  toward  the  doorway. 
She  parted  the  curtains,  and  a  suffo- 
cating cloud  overcame  her.  She  reeled 
backward,  and  fell  a  limp  heap  across 
the  couch. 

In  the  smoke-filled  doorway  ap- 
peared a  laboring  Titan.  Bernard 
dashed  the  scalding  tears  from  his 
eyes  with  one  brawny  arm,  and  groped 
blindly  forward.  His  hands  touched 
the  dress  of  the  unconscious  Helene. 
In  an  instant  he  had  gathered  her  in 
his  powerful  arms.  Once  more  he 
plunged  blindly  thru  the  billowing 
smoke,  clasping  close  to  his  bosom  the 
fair  body  of  the  lady  who  had  dis- 
dained even  to  hand  him  a  coin. 

White    with    anger,    and    wild    with 


A  REPUBLICAN  MARRIAGE. 


97 


IN  AN  INSTANT  HE  HAD  GATHERED   HER  IN    HIS  POWERFUL  ARMS,   AND  ONCE   MOKE 
HE  PLUNGED  BLINDLY   THRU   THE  BILLOWING   SMOKE. 


98 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


fear,  Cyril  volubly  cursed  the  peasants 
about  him.  It  seemed  an  age  since 
the  blacksmith  had  dashed  thru  the 
smoke  into  the  doomed  and  tottering 
building.  All  at  once  a  great  shout 
went  up  from  the  peasants.  Bernard 
stood  swaying  silently  before  them,  a 
limp,  white-clad  body  in  his  arms. 
With  one  last  mighty  effort  he  laid  her 
gently  in  the  arms  of  the  crowding 
women.  Then  he  sank  senseless  to  the 
earth  at  their  feet. 

The  sunlight  was  streaming  in  thru 
the  lofty  casements  of  the  beautiful 
old  Chateau  de  la  Croix.  The 
Countess  Helene,  still  pale  from  her 
experience  of  the  previous  week,  lay 
resting  on  a  couch  before  the  great 
fire-place.  Her  unusual  pallor  only 
served  to  accentuate  her  raven  hair 
and  dark  lustrous  eyes.  As  she  lay 
quietly,  her  white  costume  relieved  by 
the  scarlet  of  the  flowers  at  her  breast, 
she  was  indeed  a  lovely  vision.  She 
glanced  up  languidly  as  a  servant 
entered. 

"It  is  the  blacksmith,  Madame  la 
Comptesse,  Bernard  le  Fer." 

"Let  him  enter,"  said  the  Countess. 

One  of  Bernard's  mighty  arms  was 
swathed  in  the  white  of  a  linen  band- 
age. He  advanced  thru  the  room 
with  a  bold,  free  stride  that  betrayed 
an  equal  absence  of  embarrassment  or 
effrontery.  The  Countess  extended 
the  back  of  her  hand,  and  he  knelt 
and  kissed  it  reverently.  He  did  not 
speak  till  he  stood  again  before  her. 

"I  trust,"  said  Bernard,  with  grave, 
inscrutable  earnestness,  "that  Madame 
-la  Comptesse  has  somewhat  recovered." 

"I  have  to  thank  you,"  the  Countess 
answered  graciously,  "for  your  great 
service  in  a  time  of  grave  peril.  But 
have  no  fear.  You  shall  be  suitably 
rewarded." 

She  took  a  bag  of  gold  from  the 
table  beside  her,  and  proffered  it  to 
him  with  queenly  dignity. 

Something  seemed  to  snap  within 
the  giant's  chest,  and  release  a  torrent 
of  pent-up.  feeling.  A  sudden  mad- 
ness fired  his  brain  as  he  gazed  at  the 
beautiful  girl  before  him.  He  drew 
himself  up  to  his  towering  height,  and 
gazed  at  her  in  silent  refusal. 


Surprise  quickly  followed  by  anger 
shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  Helene. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demand- 
ed haughtily.  "Do  you  wish  me  to 
remain  indebted  to  one  of  your 
station  ?" 

Then  the  pent-up  flood  overflowed 
the  rigid  barriers,  sweeping  caste  and 
social  distinctions  aside,  and  leaving 
simply  primeval  man  talking  to  the 
only  woman. 

"Station!"  exclaimed  Bernard  le 
Fer.  "Station!"  His  resonant  tones 
rang  thru  the  lofty  hall-way.  "Sta- 
tion! I  am  a  man!  What  do  I  want 
with  your  paltry  gold?  It  is  I,  now, 
who  have  given  you  life.  Why,  one  of 
those  flowers  nestling  at  your  bosom  is 
worth  ten  million  sacks  of  lucre !  Give 
me  a  flower,  and  let  me  go  forth  with 
that  as  my  only  treasure !" 

Helene  started  to  her  feet  in  out- 
raged amazement.  The  thing  would 
be  ludicrous  if  it  were  not  insulting. 
That  he,  a  base-born  peasant,  should 
claim  a  flower  from  her  breast!  She 
recoiled  with  a  look  of  unspeakable 
contempt. 

"Yes,  yes !"  he  exclaimed,  "I  see 
how  you  look  at  me!  I  read  disdain 
in  your  beautiful  eyes.  But  I  am  a 
man,  I  tell  you,  not  a  beast.  I  was 
created  by  the  same  great  God  as  you! 
I  have  the  same  sorrows,  thoughts,  de- 
sires !     Look !" 

He  impetuously  plucked  forth  from 
his  bosom  a  pitiful  handful  of  faded 
flowers. 

"Look !  These  are  the  flowers  you 
cast  carelessly  aside  at  my  very  door- 
way a  week  ago !  Day  and  night  they 
have  burned  here  against  my  bosom ! 
I  ask  not  for  a  thought,  but  for  simply 
a  flower !  Give  me  only  something 
you  have  worn  since  that  time  when  I 
clasped  you  to  my  bosom.  It  is  love, 
lady,  love,  and  naught  else  that  I  bear 
for  you !  Give  me  a  memory  to  feed 
it!"" 

As  he  paused  in  his  outburst  with 
heaving  breast,  the  door  opened  quick- 
ly, and  Cyril  de  la  Croix  entered.  The 
sound  of  Bernard's  passionate  pleading 
had  carried  beyond  the  oaken  door. 

"Begone,    sir !"  the    Countess    com- 


.1  REPUBLICAN  MARRIAGE. 


99 


manded  to  Bernard  with  a  furious 
stamp  of  her  tiny  foot. 

"Begone,  sir !"  furiously  echoed 
Cyril. 

The  young  noble  advanced  with  up- 
raised whip  upon  the  unrecoiling 
blacksmith.  A  huge  arm  shot  out 
from  a  powerful  shoulder,  and  the  whip 
was  wrested  from  his  grasp.  Bernard 
broke  it  across  like  a  slender  plaything, 
and  dashed  it  to  the  tesselated  floor. 

"I    could   break    you    as   easily,"   he 


said  contemptuously  to  the  young 
nobleman,  trembling  with  rage.  "You 
slinking  coward,  were  you  the  man 
who  went  to  the  rescue  of  this  fair 
lady?  Or  were  you  the  dog  who  cow- 
ered, whining  outside,  offering  useless 
gold  to  the  men  about  you  ?  My  God  ! 
You  are  too  mean  a  thing  for  a  man  to 
soil  his  hands  on  !" 

The  instinctive  training  of  the  great 
lady  came  to  the  rescue  of  Helene  de 
la  Croix. 


100 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"Silence !"  she   commanded. 

The  two  men  stood  glaring. 

"Jean!     Albert!"  she  called. 

The  two  laquais  entered  at  the  sum- 
mons, and  Helene  pointed  to  Bernard 
with  a  regal  gesture. 

"Take  that  man,"  she  said,  "and  this 
bag  of  gold,  and  put  them  forth  from 
the  castle  gate.  Let  him  never  set 
foot  on  these  premises  again." 

The  two  laquais  siezed  Bernard,  and 


thrust  him  from  the  room,  and  an 
ominous  silence  settled  over  the 
Countess  and  her  consin.. 

"Well,  Helene,"  observed  Cyril  at 
last,  with  an  attempted  swagger,  "I 
think  that  I  must  forbid  your  riding 
about  the  country  ip  future.  If  you 
cannot  go  forth  without  inspiring  pas- 
sion in  the  rude  tenantry,  it  is  time 
that  you  became  more  secluded." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  withering 
scorn. 


A  REPUBLICAN  MARRIAGE. 


101 


"How  true  were  the  words  of  that 
rude  and  base-born  blacksmith!'' 

She  turned  her  back,  and  paced 
slowly  away  from  him. 

In  the  meantime  the  servants  had 
led  Bernard  to  the  gateway.  He  no 
longer  exerted  his  enormous  strength, 
and  they  found  courage  to  taunt  him 
and  laugh  sardonically  as  they  thrust 
him  forth  into  the  dusty  road.  It  was 
only  when  they  threw  the  bag  of  gold 
coins  after  him  that  he  turned  on  them 
in  a  sudden  rage.  Plucking  forth  a 
single  coin,  he  pressed  it  madly  to  his 
lips;  then  took  the  bag  and  dashed  it 
furiously  against  the  gates.  The  coins 
scattered  and  rolled  in  front  of  the 
gateway,  and  ere  the  last  had  settled 
into  the  dust,  Bernard  was  but  a  dis- 
tant figure  striding  rapidly  down  the 
road. 

The  Bastile  had  fallen,  and  Marat 
had  been  assassinated.  The  King  and 
Queen  had  been  executed,  and  the 
Commune  had  been  declared.  The 
fair  country  of  France  was  one  bleed- 
ing, flaming,  weltering  terror.  But 
Helene  de  la  Croix  still  kept  her  state 
in  her  beautiful  chateau  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire.  She  sat  quietly  writing 
at  a  table  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
chateau  in  the  latter  part  of  that  ter- 
rible year  1794.  The  door  burst  sud- 
denly open  as  she  wrote,  and  two  maids 
and  a  man  servant  rushed  into  the 
room. 

"Madame,  Madame !"  they  cried  in 
terror.  "Fly !  Fly !  We  are  discov- 
ered at  last !  The  Girondists  have  not 
forgotten  us!" 

"Calm  yourself,  Amelie,"  said  the 
Countess  contemptuously-  "You  need 
have  no  fears  while  I  am  here  to  pro- 
tect you." 

"But,  Madame " 

"Enough!"  said  the  Countess.  "I 
will  hear  no  more  of  your  silly  ter- 
rors !" 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  words  her 
cousin  Cyril  rushed  into  the  room.  He 
was  no  longer  the  debonair,  languid 
aristocrat,  and  his  face  was  blanched 
with  sickening  fear. 

"Read,  Helene!  Eead !"  he  cried, 
as  he  cast  a  letter  into  her  lap. 


Helene  de  la  Croix  quietly  unfolded 
the  missive.  In  a  hurried  scrawl  she 
read  the  words : 

"The  Revolutionists  are  advancing 
— murdering — burning  and  pillaging 
— fly  for  your  lives — A  Friend." 

"An  'anonymous  letter,"  said  Hel- 
ene contemptuously.  "I  have  received 
many  of  them." 

"But  this  one  is  true,"  pleaded 
Cyril  in  agony.  "Last  night  I  saw  a 
glare  in  the  East.  To-night  it  will  be 
this  chateau  which  will  feed  the 
flames." 

Helene  drew  herself  proudly  up. 
So  regal  was  her  pose  that  she  looked 
taller  than  usual.  Her  cousin  quailed 
before  her  commanding  eve. 

"Let  them  come,"  she  said  intensely. 
"Let  them  face  a  de  la  Croix,  even  if 
it  be  but  a  woman.  You,  Cyril,  can 
go  when  you  like.  And  I  should  not 
converse  of  fires,  were  I  you.  You  did 
not  distinguish  yourself  at  the  last 
one.  Go !  Take  all  the  servants,  and 
go !  I  shall  remain  in  the  home  of  my 
ancestors !" 

"If  you  are  a  fool,  I  am  not !"  cried 
Cyril  angrily.  "Come  Jean,  Amelie, 
Heloise.  We  will  leave  your  mad  mis- 
tress to  her  predestined  fate." 

The  cowering  servants  needed  no 
second  bidding.  In  an  instant  the 
Countess  was  alone  in  the  room.  She 
resumed  her  writing  with  a  smile  of 
contempt. 

The  hours  dragged  by  in  the  all  but 
deserted  chateau,  and  still  the  Countess 
kept  at  her  self-appointed  task.  Her 
friends  in  need  of  a  word  of  comfort, 
and  more  substantial  aid,  were  in- 
numerable. A  dull  murmur  in  the 
courtyard  grew  and  grew  until  the 
Countess  paused  in  her  writing.  She 
listened    intently   for   a    moment. 

"It  is  come,"  she  said  faintly,  "and 
I  am  alone !" 

The  door  burst  inward  with  a  thun- 
derous crash,  and  burly,  brutal  Car- 
riere,  Carriere,  the  leader  of  the  Re- 
publican forces,  stood  leering  at  her  in 
the  embrasure.  A  shout  of  execration 
and  rage  went  up  from  the  soldiers  and 
peasants  behind  him.  Helene  rose, 
and  faced  the  motley  throng. 

"May    I    ask,"    she    demanded    in    a 


102 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


calm,  clear  voice,  "how  you  dare  to  in- 
trude  " 

Carriere  was  swept  aside,  and  the 
mob  came  pouring  into  the  room. 
Armed  with  guns,  swords,  clubs,  meat- 
choppers, even  hoes;  they  were  dressed 
in  every  conceivable  manner.  In  an 
instant  men  and  women  were  busy 
with  the  sack  of  the  castle.  The  silken 
hangings  were  torn  from  the  walls,  and 
the  pictures  came  crashing  down  to 
the  pavement.     In  the  midst  of  it  all 


stood  the  Countess  unmoved.  Car- 
riere was  gazing  at  her  with  a  sort  of 
leering  admiration.  He  signalled  a 
soldier  who  presented  a  red  cap  of  lib- 
erty on  the  end  of  his  musket  to  the 
motionless  woman.  Before  she  had 
time  to  make  a  movement,  there  was  a 
fresh  influx  of  shouting  men  and 
women  dragging  her  pitiably  fright- 
ened cousin.  His  clothes  were  torn, 
and  muddy,  and  wet,  and  terror  was 
written  upon  his  countenance. 


Q 

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PS 
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P 


A  REPUBLICAN  MARRIAGE. 


103 


"Make  him  salute  the  cap  of  lib- 
erty!" thundered  the  burly  Carriere. 

He  roughly  snatched  a  tri-colored 
scarf  from  one  of  his  men,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  the  trembling  Cyril.  The 
latter  louted  low  to  the  cap  of  liberty, 
and  bound  the  scarf  about  his  waist. 
A  derisive  cheer  went  up  from  the  sol- 
diery. 

"And  now  the  woman/'  Carriere 
commanded. 

The  soldier  held  up  the  cap  before 
her  as  Carriere  offered  her  a  scarf.  At 
last  she  changed  from  her  rigid  immo- 
bility. Snatching  the  scarf  with  her 
tiny  fingers,  she  tore  it  across  and 
trampled  it  beneath  her  feet.  And 
she  shook  her  white  fist  at  the  cap  of 
liberty. 

With  a  roar  the  mob  surged  upon 
her  as  she  stood  in  silence,  an  empress 
defied.  With  something  like  fear  they 
recoiled  again  as  Bernard  le  Fer 
dashed  in  between.  He  thrust  them 
like  mannikins  away  from  her,  and 
turned  upon  the  raging  Carriere. 

"Here,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
breast  of  his  uniform,  "is  the  medal  I 
won  at  Valmy.  Here  is  the  ribbon  I 
won  at  Jemappes.  This  cross  I  got  at 
Valenciennes.  That  was  when  they 
made  me  a  Sergeant.  For  all  this  I 
now  claim  my  reward.  Give  me  the 
life  of  this  woman!     I  love  her!" 

Carriere  laughed  brutally  in  Ber- 
nard's face.  He  signalled  the  soldiery 
to  sieze  the  Countess  Helene,  but  once 
again  the  huge  blacksmith  thrust  them 
back.  Tearing  the  tri-colored  scarf 
from  his  waist,  he  placed  himself  at 
the  Countess'  side.  Next  came  the 
medals,  torn  from  his  breast,  and  be 
trampled  them  savagely  beneath  his 
feet. 

"That  for  Valmy,  for  Jemappes,  for 
Valenciennes!"  he  cried.  "A  thou- 
sand devils  take  your  Republic!  If  I 
die,  I  die  with  her  that  1  love !" 

At  Carriere's  signal  the  mob  closed 
once  more  about  them.  There  was  a 
brief  but  violent  struggle.  Then  Ber- 
nard in  his  tattered  uniform,  and  the 
Countess  in  her  silken  gown  were  led 
forth  from  the  room.  The  sack  of  the 
castle  went  merrily  on. 


From  the  window  of  the  prison  cell 
the  guillotine  could  be  seen  rising 
gaunt  and  stark  against  the  sere  No- 
vember trees.  Bernard  sat  silently  on 
a  stool,  and  Helene  de  la  Croix  sat  at 
the  rough  wooden  table.  Xo  word 
passed  between  them  as  they  waited  the 
hour. 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Car- 
riere blustered  in.  A  rough  friendli- 
ness had  superseded  his  former  trucu- 
lent violence.  Bernard  le  Fer  was  a 
valuable  man. 

"Come,  Bernard,"  he  said  to  the  lat- 
ter who  had  risen,  "come,  old  friend, 
I  can  still  save  you.  See,  here  is  a 
liberty  cap.  Put  it  on.  It  is  your 
last  chance." 

He  patted  him  clumsily  on  the 
shoulder. 

_  "Come,"  he  said.  "For  the  last 
time,  I  offer  you  this  cap.  Will  you 
come  back  to  us?" 

Helene  de  la  Croix  had  raised  her 
head.  For  the  first  time  in  her  proud 
young  life  her  eyes  sought  Bernard's. 
He  never  glanced  at  the  proffered  cap, 
but  his  eyes  held  hers  for  a  long-drawn 
moment.  His  head  was  high  and  his 
attitude  haughty,  but  there  was  that  in 
his  eyes  that  seemed  seeking,  seeking 
to  read  a  meaning.  Then  he  slowly 
shook  his  head. 

"What!"  snarled  Carriere  in  fury. 
"What !  You  will  not  accept  my  offer  ? 
You  prefer  the  woman?" 

Bernard  silently  nodded,  his  voice 
drowned  out  by  the  roar  of  the  mob 
that  was  raging  outside.  Carriere 
stepped  to  the  open  window,  and 
gestured  above  their  heads  toward  the 
guillotine. 

"Choose,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "Choose 
this  cap — and  me,  or  else  tin's  woman 
— and  the  guillotine!  Which  shall  it 
be?" 

For  one  instant  Bernard  shifted  his 
eyes  to  Carriere's  with  an  expression 
of  supreme  contempt.  Then  he 
pointed  to   Helene  and  the  window. 

"I  will  take  love;'  he  said,  -—and 
death." 

Some  occult  power  she  could  not 
control  brought  the  Countess  Helene 
to  her  feet.  Her  pure  white  face  shone 
with  a  holy  light  above  her  soiled  and 


104 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


tarnished  finery.  And  her  soul  looKed 
out  of  her  great  dark  eyes. 

"Bernard/'  she  whispered,  "Ber- 
nard !" 

He  started. 

"Bernard,"  she  breathed,  "you  are  a 
man!  You  are  a  man,  Bernard,  and 
— I  love  you !" 

One  breathless  moment  in  which  he 
thought  that  he  had  not  heard  aright, 
one  century-long  instant  of  hesitation; 
then  his  great  arms  went  out  to  her. 
She  lifted  her  face  to  him,  filled  with  a 


wondrous  light,  and  he  silently  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead. 

"Fear  not,  Helene,"  said  Bernard 
tenderly.  His  great  vibrant  voice  was 
changed  to  a  cadence  it  had  never 
known  before.  "Fear  not,  sweetheart. 
It  is  but  an  instant.  And — we  will  go 
together !" 

"Guard!"  thundered  Carriere  in  a 
burst  of  fury. 

A  minute  later  the  cell  stood  empty. 
All  was  silent  save  the  echoing  feet  of 
the  tramping  soldiery. 


AN  AMERICAN  COUNT 

By  Marie  A.  Rasft 

(From  the  Scenario  of  Arthur  D.  Hotaling) 


CLAEA  BLAKEMAN  was  seated  in 
her  favorite  nook  in  the  bay  win- 
dow which  overlooked  the  gardens 
of  her  father's  splendid  estate,  a  novel 
in  her  lap,  and  a  half-empty  box  of 
chocolates  on  the  table  beside  her.  She 
gazed  dreamily  at  the  distant  hills  and 
the  spires  of  the  little  city  in  the  valley 
which  glistened  in  the  sunlight.  She 
had  tired  of  the  novel,  tired  of  the 
chocolates,  and  now  she  was  tiring  of 
the  scenery,  when  a  maid  entered  and 
handed  her  a  letter. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  from 
Paris;  must  be  from  Marguerite;  how 
good  of  her  to  write  so  soon !"  She 
quickly  broke  the  seal  and  eagerly  read : 

"You'll  never  guess  what  I've  got  for 
you — something  you  have  wanted  all 
your  life,  a  title.  Don't  marry  Ralph 
Dexmore,  for  I've  got  you  a  Count. 
Just  think  of  it,  dear,  a  real,  live 
Count !  He's  perfectly  splendid,  with 
the  dearest,  black  mustache  and  beard, 
and  twinkling  eyes  that  move  all 
around  every  way,  so  quickly  one  can 
never  guess  what  he  is  thinking  about. 
The  photograph  I  send  natters  him  a 
little,  but  Paris  photographers  are  all 
artists  and  therefore  deceptive.  With 
the  exception  of  the  Baron,  the  Count 
is  really  the  most  interesting  man  with 
a  title  I've  met,  and  I'm  going  to  send 
him  to  you  for  a  Christmas  present. 
Isn't  that  lovely?  He's  perfectly  daft 
about  you ;  asked  so  many  questions  the 
very  first  time  he  saw  vour  picture— 
the  one  you  had  taken  in  fancy  costume 
for  the  bazaar.  He  wanted  to  know  if 
you  were  a  danseuse,  and  if  you  were 
marriageable?     Of  course  I  told  him 


you  were  a  charming  dancer — don't  be 
frightened,  dear,  you  needn't  dance  for 
him.  Tell  him  you've  sprained  your 
ankle  recently.  I  told  him  your  father 
had  barrels  of  money,  but  not  till  I 
was  sure  he  loved  you,  and  I  said  that 
you  wouldn't  look  at  American  men 
because  they  have  no  gallantry  and 
didn't  know  enough  to  give  a  lady  a 
seat  in  a  street  car.  He  just  rolled  his 
lovely  eyes*,  clasped  his  hands  and  ex- 
claimed, cMon  Dieu !  That  so  beauti- 
ful a  Mademoiselle  should  suffer  such 
indignity. '  Wasn't  that  beautiful  ? 
Just  imagine,  if  you  can,  Ealph  Dex- 
more saying  any  such  thing  as  that ! 

"And  now  he's  coming  over — to  see 
you.  You  may  expect  him  to  follow 
this  letter  closely.  Be  sure  to  have 
Ralph  out  of  the  way  before  the  Count 
de  Barbes  (that's  his  name)  arrives 
and  don't  forget  to  time  your  arrival 
here  so  as  to  see  me  married  to  the 
Baron.  He  hasn't  asked  me  yet,  but 
anyone  can  see  that  he's  desperately  in 
love.  I  can  imagine  your  excitement 
when  you  get  this  letter.  Do  write  at 
once  to  your  devoted  Marguerite." 

"Oh,  the  dear,  sweet  thing !"  ex- 
claimed Clara  Blakeman,  pressing  the 
letter  and  the  photograph  to  her  heart. 
"I  always  said  Marguerite  was  the 
most  thoughtful  girl  in  the  world.  I 
knew  she  would  never  be  happy  to  be  a 
Baroness  unless  I  had  a  title,  too." 

"Some  flowers,  Miss  Clara,  from  Mr. 
Dexmore." 

The  maid's  announcement  interrupt- 
ed the  train  of  Clara's  thoughts.  She, 
the  promised  wife  of  Ralph  Dexmore, 
planning  to  be  a  Countess !     And  the 


105 


10G 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


Count  was  even  now  on  the  way.  How 
could  she  marry  him  if  Ralph  refused 
to  release  her?  He  was  determined  to 
have  their  wedding  occur  during  the 
holiday  vacation  when  the  University 
boys  could  be  present,  but  now  she 
must  destroy  those  plans. 

"I  don't  want  those  flowers !"  she 
cried,  petulantly.  "He  had  no  busi- 
ness to  send  them/'  The  little  French 
maid  gazed  at  her  in  amazement. 
"Take  them  away,  Marie.  I  tell  you 
I  don't  want  them." 

"But      Miss ,"      began      Marie, 

timidly. 

Clara  rose  hastily.  The  picture  of 
the  beetle-browed,  black  bearded  Count 
fell  to  the  floor.  Quickly  Marie  stooped 
to  recover  it,  and  as  she  did  so  her  face 
paled  and  she  suppressed  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise.  Clara  did  not  notice 
Marie's  keen  scrutiny  as  she  respect- 
fully handed  back  the  picture.  In- 
stead, the  glint  of  her  own  engagement 
ring  caught  her  eyes,  and  brought  back 
the  memory  of  the  evening  Ralph  had 
placed  the  ring  on  her  finger.  She 
must  not  encourage  sentiment,  however, 
and  she  reassured  herself  by  recalling 
that  the  engagement  was  one  of  her 
father's  choosing,  anyway.  He  was 
always  sounding  Ralph's  praises. 

"I  don't  care  what  father  says,"  she 
reflected,  after  the  maid  had  left  the 
room,     "I'll    not    marry    him.       Oh, 

Count "  holding  the  picture  of  the 

Count  at  arm's  length  and  gazing  at  it 
rapturously.  "To  think  that  I  am 
really  to  be  a  Countess  and  have  all  the 
girls  simply  furious  with  jealousy !" 

As  she  paced  the  floor  she  gazed  with 
delight  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror 
and  reflected  upon  the  charms  of  a 
diamond  tiara. 

"I  can  just  see  the  society  columns 
of  the  morning  papers,"  she  thought. 
"Another  American  Countess — Miss 
Blakeman  now  the  bride  of  the  Count 
de  Barbes — wearing  the  family  jewels 
of  the  house  of  Barbadoes,  or  some- 
thing like  that — at  home  in  the 
Chateau  Hobeau,  or  some  other  high- 
sounding  name.  Oh,  I  can't  think  of 
it  another  minute.  It's  too  good  to  be 
true.     I  must  read  Marguerite's  letter 


again — why,  where  is  that  letter?  I 
had  it  in  my  hand  a  minute  ago.  What 
did  I  do  with  it?" 

Clara's  room,  always  a  scene  of  con- 
fusion, was  a  difficult  one  to  search. 
It  had  a  record  for  mysterious  disap- 
pearances. Marie  knew  from  experi- 
ence the  difficult  problem  of  searching 
for  any  small  article  amid  that  miscel- 
laneous collection  of  toilet  accessories, 
breakfast  trays,  cushions,  letters, 
flowers,  furbelows  and  candy  boxes. 
She  knew,  too,  that  the  missing  article 
always  appeared  eventually  in  the  most 
unlikely  place.  She  did  not  appear 
surprised,  therefore,  when  she  came,  in 
response  to  Clara's  impatient  ring,  and 
was  asked  if  she  had  noticed  what  was 
done  with  a  monogramed  letter  written 
on  pale  blue  paper. 

But  Marie  had  not  seen  the  letter, 
she  said.  She  looked  quite  frank  when 
she  said  so.  She  was  very  sure  she 
had  not  seen  any  letter.  Miss  Clara 
would  remember  that  she  had  recovered 
the  picture  when  it  had  fallen,  but 
there  had  not  been  any  letter,  and  of 
that  she  was  positive. 

And  yet,  the  letter  was  missing. 

"Oh,  life  is  only  a  merry-go-round, 
a  merry-go-round,  a  merry-go- 
round — ' — "  hummed  Ralph  Dexmore, 
as  he  stood  before  his  dressing-table 
and  carefully  arrayed  himself  to  appear 
with  other  members  of  the  Alumni  at 
the  University  Gke  Club  concert  that 
evening. 

"Strange  that  Clara  didn't  'phone 
when  she  got  those  flowers.  I  put  the 
note  inside  in  plain  sight.  Told  her 
I'd  be  there  at  8  o'clock,  sharp.  It'll 
be  a  jolly  shame  if  she's  not  ready.  If 
I  have  to  wait  as  long  as  I  did  the  last 
time  I'll  appeal  to  the  old  man.  The 
old  fellow's  all  right.  Says  he'll  take 
me  into  partnership  after  we're  mar- 
ried— .  What's  the  matter  out  there  ?" 
he  shouted,  as  sounds  of  voices  floated 
in  from  the  hall. 

"A  messenger,  sir,"  replied  the  re- 
spectful little  Japanese  who  ministered 
to  the  wants  of  Mr.  Dexmore.  "He 
will  not  surrender  the  package  but  to 
yourself." 


AN   AMERICAN    COUNT. 


107 


"All  right,  bring  it  here,  boy — 
what's  the  duty?" 

In  the  gladness  of  his  heart  Dexmore 
received  everyone  with  equal  gladness. 

"Here,  have  a  smoke,  kid?"  tossing 
a  box  of  cigarettes  toward  the  youth. 


"Wait  a  minute  until  I  see  if  there's 


an  answer. 
"Well,  I'll  be- 


Dexmore  didn't 


finish  the  sentence.  He  dropped  into 
the  nearest  chair  and  gazed  stupidly 
from  the  note  in  his  hand  to  the  round- 


l'A  LITTLE  MORE  TO  ONE  SIDE,  PLEASE 


108 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


shouldered  youth  so  intent  upon  light- 
ing a  cigarette.  "It's  all  right — there's 
— no — answer/'  he  said,  slowly.  Then, 
rising  angrily,  as  the  Japanese  reap- 
peared at  the  door,  "Clear  out,  will 
you  ? — both  of  you  !" 

Ealph  Dexmore  never  wasted  much 
time  in  anger  or  ill-temper.  He  gazed 
at  the  small  ring  which  had  fallen 
into  the  palm  of  his  hand  as  he  un- 
folded the  note,  and  by  the  time  he 
was  ready  to  give  the  latter  a  second 
reading  there  was  an  expression  of 
hope  and  of  determination  on  his  face. 
"While  there's  life  there's  hope.  Life 
is  only  a  merry-go-round,  anyway,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  read  the  note  for  the 
second  time : 

"My  dear  Mr.  Dexmore :  All  is  over 
between  us.  I  have  found  out  my  mis- 
take. I  can  never  marry  you  and  I 
return  your  ring.  Fate  never  meant 
that  I  should  wear  it.  Try  to  forget 
me,  and  I  will  remember  you 
always. — Clara." 

Five  minutes  later  the  impetuous 
Ealph  Dexmore  entered  Clara's  sitting- 
room  without  being  announced. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Clara,  what  is 
all  this  nonsense  about?"  he  cried. 

It  was  at  the  very  time  he  had  been 
expecting  to  sit,  with  Clara  beside  him, 
within  the  charmed  circle  of  the  Alum- 
ni at  the  concert. 

Tho  taken  unawares,  Clara  was  at 
her  best.  She  was  stately.  She  was 
awe-inspiring. 

"It  means,"  she  replied,  "exactly 
what  I  wrote  to  you.  Everything  is 
over  between  us.  I  was  foolish  ever 
to  think  that  I  loved  you.  I  have 
learned  my  mistake " 

"Nonsense,  Clara,  listen  to  me !" 
cried  Dexmore.  "Surely  we  have 
known  each  other  long  enough.  Ever 
since  we  were  children  we  have  been 
sweethearts.  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you're  going  to  throw  me  over,  now, 
for  someone  else.  Tell  me,  there  isn't 
anyone  else,  is  there,  dear?" 

"You  mustn't  call  me  that,  Mr. 
Dexmore.  It  is  not  proper.  I  am  not 
in  a  position  to  accept  any  attentions 
from  you,  whatever.     You  are  not  my 


ideal,  that  is  all.     You  are  too  plain 
an  American — \ — " 

"What  ?  An  American  !"  Dexmore 
gasped  with  astonishment.  "What  in 
thunder  else  would  I  be?  My  grand- 
fathers helped  to  establish  this  glori- 
ous republic.  I  thank  the  good  oici 
boys  that  I  am  an  American.  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  gone  back 
to  your  old  craze  for  titled,  chin- 
whiskered     dudes     from     the      other 

side Ye    gods,    how    silly    you 

are !     A    girl    of    seventeen    ought    to 
have  better  sense  by  this  time." 

Dexmore  flung  himself  into  an  easy- 
chair  and  gazed  almost  contemptuously 
at  the  beautiful  object  of  his  affections. 
And  just  then  an  idea,  almost  an  in- 
spiration, began  taking  root  in  his 
troubled  mind.  Clara  moved  serenely 
over  to  the  window.  She  did  not  sit. 
Her  gown  was  new  and  it  was  hobbled. 
"Hobbles  are  so  tight  over  here," 
Marguerite  had  written,  "that  the 
ladies  make  no  attempt  to  sit  down." 
And  was  not  the  Count  coming  from 
the  other  side?  Clara  was  practicing 
for  the  Count. 

"You  are  ill-mannered,"  she  flashed. 
"You  have  no  dignity — no.  gallantry. 
You  don't  know  how  to  make  love  to  a 
girl.  You  send  your  flowers  by  a  dirty- 
faced  messenger.  You  don't  present 
them  yourself.  You  lounge  in  a 
chair  and  talk  about  a  ball  game  or 
some  silly  mandolin  players  in  a  glee 
club.  You  have  no  romance,  no 
poetry,  no  imagination." 

Clara  had  not  studied  elocution  at 
boarding  school  for  nothing.  She  did 
her  little  part  very  nicely.  Her  pose 
was  good  and  her  intonation  perfect. 
The  effect  was  not  lost  on  Dexmore.. 

"You're  a  good  thing,"  he  exclaimed, 
abruptly.  "That  style  becomes  you 
immensely.  I  tell  you,  Clara,  you'd  be 
a  dazzler,  with  a  pearl  necklace  and  a 
few  diamonds  sprinkled  around  on  you 
promiscuously,  and  a  title  to  your 
name." 

Clara  started  at  this  unexpected  im- 
pudence. Dexmore's  countenance  was 
inscrutible,  almost  humorous.  She 
was -puzzled.  Evidently  he  did_  not 
mean  to  be  offensive,  she  thought.     But 


AN    AMERICAN    COUNT. 


109 


her  sudden  start  was  not  lost  upon 
Dexmore.  His  inspiration  had  de- 
veloped simultaneously  with  Clara's 
oratory.  He  rose,  very  seriously. 
Clara  wondered  at  his  sudden  change. 

"Then  I  suppose,  Miss  Blakeman," 
he  said,  gravely,  as  he  turned  to  the 
door,  "I  must  submit  to  your  judg- 
ment. I  am  a  plain  American.  I 
have  no  whiskers,  and  no  manners.  I 
apologize  for  my  presence  here  this 
evening." 

As  he  left  the  room  Clara  turned 
quickly  as  if  to  follow  him;  then, 
recollecting  herself,  she  resumed  her 
position  at  the  window,  and  later 
wondered  why  she  did  not  see  him  pass 
down  the  steps. 

In  the  library  where  Colonel  Blake- 
man  was  smoking,  stood  Marie,  very 
nervous,  very  much  inclined  to  tears. 
Fear  of  a  stern  master  had  caused  her 
to  betray  her  young  mistress. 

"You're  sure  you  have  made  no  mis- 
take?" said  the  Colonel. 

"Quite  sure,  sir,"  answered  Marie. 
"There  is  no  mistake.     I  would  know 


the  face  anywhere — anywhere,"  she  re- 
peated, with  a  sweeping  gesture. 

"Then  fetch  me  the  letter."  The 
Colonel  was  a  man  of  few  words. 

"That's  all.  I'll  excuse  you,  now. 
Remember  to  say  nothing  about  this  to 
anyone,"  he  remarked,  between  puffs 
at  his  cigar,  after  Marie  had  returned 
and  placed  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
"But  wait — where's  that  photograph? 
On  her  desk?  All  right,  that's  all  I 
want  to  know."  The  Colonel  tossed 
his  cigar  away  as  the  door  closed  be- 
hind the  girl.  Rising,  he  began  to 
stride  up  and  down  the  room  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand,  when  a  knock 
sounded  at  the  door.  He  did  not  have 
time  to  answer  it. 

"Good  evening,  Colonel,  may  I  come 
in?" 

It  was  Dexmore's  voice.  The  Col- 
onel chuckled.  "Well,  you've  come  at 
an  opportune  time,"  he  said.  "Read 
that,"  thrusting  a  blue,  monogramed 
letter  into  Ralph's  hand. 

"Marguerite  Bristol  is  about  the 
nearest    approach    to    a    fool    of    any 


HIS  FINE  SPEECHES  FOUND  READY  EARS. 


110 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


woman  I  ever  met/'  remarked  Dex- 
more, as  he  finished  reading  the  letter 
and  flung  it  on  the  table.  "Have  a 
cigar,  Colonel?'7 

"Thanks,  my  good  fellow/'  said  the 
Colonel,  helping  himself  to  a  perfecto; 
"and  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  ?" 

"Do  ?"  echoed  Ralph,  "why,  I'm  go- 
ing to  wait  until  that  blooming  French- 
man gets  here,  and  then  I'll  make  his 
life  so  miserable  for  him  that  he'll  wish 
he'd  never  set  foot  in  America.  I'll 
wager  any  amount  he's  an  imposter  and 
a  mere  heiress  seeker." 

For  a  moment  both  men  smoked 
their  cigars  in  silence.  Then  the 
Colonel  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I've  got  it — I've  got  it !"  he  ex- 
claimed so  suddenly  that  Dexmore  ran 
toward  him  fearing  an  attack  of  ill- 
ness. But  the  Colonel  was  never  more 
vigorous.  He  slapped  Dexmore  sound- 
ly on  the  shoulder  as  he  continued  his 
exclamations.  "I've  got  a  scheme  that 
will  sidetrack  that  foreigner  before  he 
ever  gets  started,"  he  chuckled,  as  he 
hurried  from  the  room.  When  he  re- 
turned he  had  a  photograph  with  him. 
There  was  a  brief,  low-toned  conversa- 
tion ;  and  the  inquisitive  maid,  listening 
at  the  keyhole,  heard  something  about 
"disguise"  and  "costume,"  but  could 
make  nothing  of  it.  Then  the  two 
men  went  out  into  the  hall,  put  on 
their  coats  and  hats  and  hurried  from 
from  the  house. 

"A  little  more  to  one  side,  please. 
There,  that  will  do.  Just  a  moment, 
gentlemen,  until  I  touch  up  that  left 
eye-brow.  Now,  will  the  gentleman 
kindly  smile  while  I  make  the  com- 
parison ?" 

The  gentleman  with  the  beetle 
brows  and  curling  mustache  smiled 
obediently. 

"It  is  perfect !"  exclaimed  the  first 
speaker,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  as 
he  held  a  photograph  at  arm's  length 
and  critically  compared  it  with  the  sub- 
ject before  him.  "If  the  gentleman  is 
satisfied,  I  trust  he  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
recommend  me " 

"Eecommend  ?  "  interrupted  the 
voice  of  the  third  person  in  the  small 


room.  "If  the  scheme  goes  thro  we'll 
recommend  you  as  capable  of  trans- 
forming Old  Nick  himself.  Here,  is 
that  enough  ?"  And  the  Colonel 
handed  a  generous  bill  to  the  urbane 
costumer.  Then,  turning  toward  the 
counterpart  of  the  picture,  "Now, 
Count  What's-your-name,  get  yourself 
together  and  we'll  hunt  up  a  hotel." 

The  two  disappeared  down  the  steps, 
and  the  costumer  returned  to  his  work. 

The  morning  papers  next  day  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  the  Count  de 
Barbes,  of  Paris,  and  that  afternoon 
the  titled  foreigner  presented  himself 
at  the  Blakeman  residence.  He  car- 
ried a  bunch  of  gardenias.  He  pre- 
sented them  to  the  fair  Clara  on  his 
bended  knees.  He  arose,  he  struck  an 
attitude,  he  posed,  and  he  stroked  his 
Van  Dyke  beard  at  frequent  intervals. 
His  eyes,  like  those  of  the  poet's  lay, 
were  "in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling."  His 
fine  speeches  found  ready  ears,  but  the 
pretty  little  heiress  wondered  why  the 
Count  did  not  look  her  directly  in  the 
face;  but  she  remembered  that  all 
geniuses  must  have  their  eccentricities. 

At  the  earliest  moment,  a  few  days 
later,  when  she  was  free  from  engage- 
ments, and  the  lively  courtship  had 
progressed  amazingly,  she  wrote  to 
Marguerite : 

"My  dearest  girl:  He's  come.  He's 
here.  He's  perfectly  splendid — as  a 
Count,  you  know.  Of  course,  he's  not 
so  good  looking  as  Ealph,  but  his  gal- 
lantry is  that  of  an  angel.  Such 
candor — such  ardor — such  devotion  ! 
He  hadn't  been  in  the  drawing-room 
half  an  hour  before  he  told  me  that  I 
was  the  fulfillment  of  the  dream  of  his 
life;  and  he  said  that  when  he  saw 
that  picture  of  me  he  knew  the  face, 
instantly,  as  the  one  of  his  dreams. 
He  says  he  will  die  if  I  don't  marry 
him  at  once,  and,  will  you  believe  it  ? — 
father  has  given  his  consent !  I  had 
hoped  to  have  a  church  wedding  and  a 
long  list  of  foreign  guests,  but  we'll 
have  to  give  it  up.  It  is  all  so  sudden 
I  don't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
I  wish  he  was  better  looking.  I'm  glad 
he  isn't  a  little  man,  tho,  as  I  thought 
he  was,  from  your  letter.     He's  fully 


AN   AMERICAN    COUNT. 


Ill 


as  tall  as  Ealph.  Sometimes  he  almost 
reminds  me  of  Ealph.  Poor  fellow ! 
He  was  in  a  dreadful  state  of  mind 
when  I  broke  the  engagement.  He 
hasn't  been  near  the  house  since,  and 
I  haven't  had  the  heart  to  laugh  for  a 
week.  I'm  just  dying  to  see  you.  A 
few  days  more  and  I  shall  be  on  the 
way — and  the  Count  with  me.  I  do 
hope  I'll  be  happy.  Being  a  Countess 
is  a  dreadful  responsibility,  but  I  dare- 
say I  shall  get  used  to  it.  Believe  me, 
always  your  loving  and  grateful, 
Clara." 

"Will  Mademoiselle — the  joy  of  my 
heart — my  bride  so  beautiful — come 
now?  Ah,  it  eez  such  honour  for  me, 
such  bleez — such  rapture* — that  Made- 
moiselle bestows  upon  me  her  hand. 
Permit  me  that  I  give  myself  ze  pleas- 
aire  of  placing  ze  gift  of  ze  great  House 
of  de  Barbes  upon  eets  future  mis- 
tress." 

The  bridegroom  had  come  for  his 
bride.  The  future  countess  bent  her 
lovely  head  that  the  dainty  necklace 
might  be  fastened  around  her  throat. 


The  bridesmaids,  with  their  bunches  of 
roses  held  with  military  precision, 
crowded  forward.  The  matron  of 
honor,  with  her  picture  hat  and  willow 
plumes,  pressed  as  near  as  the  brim  of 
it  would  permit.  In  the  general  stir 
Clara  could  not  notice  that  the  neck- 
lace boasted  of  but  one  jem  and  that  it 
was  set  in  the  back  of  a  locket. 
Neither  did  she  notice  the  quick  look 
of  understanding  which  passed  between 
the  young  men,  class  mates  of  Ralph's, 
who,  in  view  of  the  Count's  lack  of 
American  acquaintances,  Colonel  Blake- 
man  had  asked  to  attend  him  at  the 
marriage. 

The  Colonel,  in  a  great  state  of  ex- 
citement, was  everywhere,  anxious  that 
everything  should  be  perfect,  that 
nothing  should  be  forgotten  and,  what 
puzzled  Clara  more  than  anything  else, 
greatly  concerned  lest  there  be  any 
delay  and  the  minister  be  kept  wait- 
ing. 

"Come,  Count,  come,"  he  called; 
"keep  the  fine  speeches  until  after  the 
wedding.     My  motto  is  never  to  delay. 


I   AM  ZE  COUNT  \" 


112 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


Seize  happiness  while  you  can.  There's 
many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip, 
you  know." 

To  Clara  the  words  sounded  ominous. 
She  forgot  to  be  stately.  She  com- 
menced to  be  tearful.  Something,  she 
did  not  know  what,  reminded  her  of 
Ralph.  It  seemed  strange  to  see  all 
the  familiar  faces  and  his  not  among 
them. 

"I'm  frightened,  father,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Somehow,  I  don't  feel  a  bit 
like  being  a  Countess." 

"Nonsense,"  laughed  the  Colonel. 
"You  wouldn't  want  to  show  the  white 
feather  now,  would  you  ?  Think  of  the 
Count's  beautiful  manners." 

"Yes,  father,  the  Count  is — oh,  that 
beard — that  mustache — those  eyes  ! — I 
can't  get  used  to  them.  He  looks  so 
black.  He  frightens  me  sometimes. 
He  never  laughs.  He  just  talks  love, 
love,  love,  and  sometimes  he  is  really 
fierce." 

The  Colonel  tried  hard  to  conceal  his 
amusement.  "Oh,  pshaw !"  he  ex- 
claimed, "you're  nervous,  that's  all. 
The  fellow  is  all  right.  I  never  saw  a 
foreigner  I  liked  so  well.  You'll  get 
over  your  stage  fright  after  the  cere- 
mony is  over.  Now,  are  we  all  ready  ?" 
turning  to  the  waiting  line  of  brides- 
maids and  ushers;  "then  let's  start." 

The  Count,  attended  by  a  stalwart 
member  of  the  'Varsity  football  team, 
was  waiting,  with  the  minister,  before 
a  bower  of  palms.  The  bridal  party 
took  their  places  and  the  ceremony 
commenced. 

"I  take  thee,  Clara " 

The  voice  sounded  suspiciously  like 
Ralph's.  It  was  ominous.  Clara 
trembled.  Her  own  replies  became 
almost  inaudible.  She  was  almost  re- 
pentant and  she  could  hardly  suppress 
the  tears.  But  the  minister  was  stead- 
ily proceeding  with  the  solemn  service 
and  the  stillness  was  intense.  Sud- 
denly there  seemed  to  be  some  con- 
fusion outside,  in  the  hall.  The  bene- 
diction was  almost  hurried.  As  the 
final  words  were  spoken  the  Colonel 
quickly  stepped  forward,  grasped  his 
new  son-in-law's  hand,  and  fondly 
kissed  the  bride. 


Congratulations  were  in  order,  and 
the  crowd  pressed  forward. 

"Rah,  rah,"  commenced  the  college 
men,  who  had  been  let  into  the  secret, 
but  there  Avas  a  sudden  scattering  of 
the  guests. 

A  short,  black-bearded,  mustached, 
wild-eyed  individual  dashed  into  the 
room. 

"Stop    it — stop    it !"    he    cried, 

breathlessly.  He  waved  his  hands 
wildly.  He  tore  his  hair  and  beat  his 
breast.  "Eet  eez  ze  mistake  terrible. 
I  am  ze  real  Count.     Eet  eez  intrigue. 

Parbleu  !      Ze   villain !"   he   fairly 

squealed,  in  a  high  falsetto,  pointing 
toward  the  towering  bridegroom. 

One  of  the  bridesmaids  screamed. 
The  matron  of  honor  giggled. 

"Take  him  away — take  him  away," 
moaned  poor  Clara,  hiding  her  face 
against  her  husband's  arm.  Down  on 
his  knees  went  the  little,  impecunious 
Count.  He  told  of  his  love — his  hope- 
less passion.  He  implored  mercy.  In 
vain  the  Colonel  thundered  his  com- 
mands. The  guests  inclined  to  think 
the  scene  a  special  vaudeville  arranged 
for  their  entertainment,  were  con- 
vulsed with  laughter. 

"Ze  petite  danseuse,"  screamed  the 
little  man,  stretching  his  arms  ador- 
ingly toward  the  bride. 

"Cut  it "  roared  the  newly-made 

benedict. 

"You  villian — knave — you "  with 

a  scream  of  rage  the  infuriated  Count 
leaped  toward  his  successful  rival. 
Then  there  was  something  like  a  foot- 
ball scrimmage  and  the  real  Count 
quickly  found  that  he  was  no  match 
for  the  bogus  one. 

"Ze  gendarmes,  ze  gendarmes " 

screamed  the  fallen  one,  struggling  to 
his  feet  and  again  making  frantic 
attempts  to  reach  the  bridegroom. 

That  gentleman  seemed  to  be  enjoy- 
ing the  situation  immensely. 

"I — I  am  ze  Count  de  Barbes!" 
shrilled  the  little  man,  hopping  about 
and  looking  not  unlike  a  lively  ape. 
"I  come  for  the  danseuse.  She  must 
be  mine —  Oh,  Mon  Dieu !  Ze  bar- 
rels of  monee " 


AN   AMERICAN    COUNT. 


113 


Just  then  another  personage  sud- 
denly appeared  upon  the  scene. 

"Pierre,  Pierre " 

The  voice  was  that  of  Marie,  the 
maid.  She  had  entered  with  the  other 
servants  during  the  confusion.  At  the 
sound  of  her  voice  the  little  man 
turned,  and  at  sight  of  Marie  he 
started  violently. 

"He  is  not  a  Count!"  cried  Marie. 
"He  is  a  thief — a  rogue,  to  desert  me 
in  Paris " 

"You  scoundrel !"  exclaimed  Ralph. 

"Put  him  out !"  "Kick  a  goal  with 
him  !"  came  from  all  sides. 

"Throw  him  out  !"  ordered  the 
Colonel.  There  was  a  rush  of  football 
ushers  and  servants. 

Still  shrieking  wildly,  kicking,  bit- 
ing and  struggling,  the  noble  scion  of 
the  House  de  Barbes  was  thrown  bodily 
into  the  street. 

All  this  time  poor  Clara  stood  as  one 
dazed,  but  she  clung  closely  to  her  hus- 
band. Then  the  Colonel  sprang  for- 
ward, seized  the  hair  and  whiskers  of 
the  bridegroom  and  revealed  the  hand- 
some face  of  Ralph  Dexmore. 


"Cheer  up,  Clara,"  he  said,  "your 
husband  is  an  American  citizen !" 

Of  course,  Clara  was  amazed  as  well 
as  delighted,  and  with  a  glad  cry  she 
threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her 
husband. 

As  the  guests  trooped  merrily  into 
the  supper  room,  Ralph  slipped  his  arm 
tenderly  around  his  bride  and  kissed 
her  read}r  lips. 

"Are  you  sorry  it  wasn't  the  Count 
de  Barbes  you  married,  dear  ?" 

"Oh,  Ralph,  can  you  ever  forgive 
me  ?"  was  the  almost  tearful  reply. 
The  Colonel,  coming  suddenly  upon  the 
scene  as  the  pledge  of  forgiveness  was 
given,  extended  his  hands  in  mock 
solemnit}r,  saying: 

"Will  the  company  please  sing  the 
Marsellaise — America — and  the  Union 
Forever  ?" 

"Nothing  French,"  laughed  Clara. 
"Nothing  foreign.  I  shall  be  quite 
satisfied  with  America,"  but  the  words 
were  drowned  amid  a  shower  of  rice 
and  a  truly  American  noise  that  had  its 
beginning  and  end  in  a  vigorous  "Rah, 
rah,  rah !" 


rYOUK    HUSBAND   IS    AN    AiUlilUCAN     CITIZEN!" 


^[ditorial 


PROEM. 

If  "  'tis  true  that  a  good  play  needs  no  prolog,"  it  is  equally 
true  that  a  good  magazine  needs  no  introduction,  but  perhaps 
a  word  of  explanation  would  not  be  amiss. 

The  Motion  Picture  Story  Magazine  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  it  pretends  to  be.  Its  purpose  is  to  tell  the  story  of 
life,  past  and  present,  by  means  of  that  greatest  of  mirrors,  and 
the  most  permanent, — the  picture. 

The  moving  pictures  are  the  books  of  the  masses;  and,  as 
we  say  in  our  graphic  slang,  they  have  come  to  stay.  Nothing 
in  ancient  or  modern  times  has  taken  such  a  hold  on  the  public, 
and  the  reason  is  not  hard  to  find;  for  does  not  the  moving 
picture  combine  all  those  virtues  and  characteristics  which  the 
people  demand  for  their  profit  and  amusement?  Does  it  not 
depict  The  Passing  ^how  right  up  to  the  minute,  and  reveal 
human  nature  and  human  life  as  it  was,  as  it  is,  and  as  it  should 
be?  Does  it  not  supply  at  once,  entertainment,  education,  cul- 
ture, and  gratification  of  all  the  faculties  and  emotions?  Does 
it  not  take  its  lawful  place  beside  its  sisters,  poetry,  drama,  liter- 
ature, painting,  sculpture,  architecture  and  music,  and  form  a 
staff  of  support  for  them  all? 

Some  of  the  famous  moving  picture  plays  have  been  indel- 
ibly imprinted  on  the  memory,  but  we  believe  that  a  magazine 
like  this  is  needed  to  make  more  permanent  the  leading  scenes 
and  characters,  to  serve  as  a  memorial  to  the  artists  as  well  as 
to  the  art,  and,  in  general,  to  add  to  the  budget  of  human 
enjoyment — to  charm,  instruct  and  entertain. 


One  advantage  of  the  motion  picture  over  the  theatre  play 
is  in  the  variety  of  the  scenery  and  the  facility  with  which  it 
can  be  changed.  At  the  theatre  we  seldom  see  more  than  three 
scenes,  and  we  are  obliged  to  wait  several  minutes  to  see  even 
these ;  while  at  the  moving  picture  plays,  we  may  see  a  hundred 
in  one  piece,  without  losing  a  minute  of  our  time  and  without 
losing  a  bit  of  action.  Besides  this,  the  limited  space  on  the 
theatre  stage  makes  elaborate  scenery  impossible,  whereas  the 
picture  play  often  presents  real  instead  of  painted  scenery. 


EDITORIALS. 


115 


To  imitate,  as  Aristotle  observes,  is  instinctive  to  the  human 
race,  and  from  clever  imitation  all  men  derive  a  certain  pleasure. 
That  is  why,  for  three  thousand  years,  the  drama  has  been  to 
the  world  one  of  its  greatest  sources  of  entertainment,  culture 
and  education.  Indeed,  uThe  play's  the  thing,"  but  not  neces- 
sarily the  spoken  play.  Gesture  and  facial  expression  are  more 
eloquent  than  words.  The  eyes  can  speak  as  well  as  the  lips, 
"Actions  speak  louder  than  words."  And  not  only  this,  for 
all  the  world  loves  a  picture,  and  that  is  why  the  moving  picture 
has  come  into  such  unprecedented  popularity.  By  Theophile 
Gautier  it  has  been  well  remarked  that  the  skeleton  of  every 
good  drama  is  a  pantomime,  although  the  bones  that  form  it 
must  be  covered  with  the  living  flesh  of  poetry. 

The  moving  pictures  not  only  imitate ;  they  interpret  human 
life.  No  painter  can  paint  with  the  hand  what  the  motion  pic- 
ture spectator  can  see  with  his  eye. 

As  Cowper  observes,  "Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize 
— the  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim  to  quench  it."  And 
what  better  accomplishes  this  than  the  moving  picture?  It 
puts  in  permanent  form  the  history  of  to-day  for  the  scholars 
of  to-morrow.  It  sketches  life,  customs,  habits  and  character 
as  no  words  can  do.  It  makes  an  accurate  record  of  times  pres- 
ent, and  brings  us  into  more  intimate  relations  with  times  past. 

A  famous  preacher  recently  said  that  he  believed  more  good 
was  done  to  the  boys  by  the  moving  picture  plays  than  by  the 
churches.  "You  can  teach  a  boy  a  lesson,"  said  he,  "  in  Sun- 
day-school, but  he  is  not  interested,  and,  if  he  listens  at  all,  he 
soon  forgets  what  he  has  learned;  while  the  lesson  of  the 
moving  picture  is  not  only  intensely  interesting,  but  it  has  a 
dramatic  and  lasting  effect  on  the  boy.  If  I  could  select  my 
own  pictures,  I  believe  I  could  reform  any  bad  boy." 

* 

The  first  dramatic  representations  known  in  Europe  were 
devotional  pieces,  acted  by  the  monks,  in  the  churches  of  their 
convents,  representative  of  the  life  of  the  Saviour  and  of  His 
apostles.  The  drama  has  long  since  passed  the  time  when  it 
was  used  for  religious  or  even  for  moral  purposes,  yet  the 
motion  picture  play  has  come,  and  we  frequently  see  plays  in 
illustration  of  Bible  stories  and  of  other  moral  truths. 


The  picture  play  has  been  a  God-send  to  those  who  have 
been  complaining  of  bad  acoustics  in  the  theatres,  and  of  actors 
with  poor  enunciation  or  bad  elocution.  And  we  must  not  for- 
get that  there  is  in  every  community  a  considerable  number 
who  are  hard  of  hearing,  or  even  deaf. 


Musings  of 

'&  Photoplay 
Mhilgo^mtier 


*  '  >  "i    4 


(Note. — The  writer  of  these-  notes  has  been  a  regular  patron 
of  the  Motion  Picture  Plays  since  they  were  first  publicly  shown, 
and  during  the  last  three  years  he  has  made  it  a  practice  to  visit 
at  least  seven  different  Picture  Theaters  each  week.  That  is  his 
way  of  studying  human  nature.  Not  all  of  his  comments  were 
inspired  by  the  Photo  Plays,  perhaps,  and  it  may  be  that  the  lessons 
and  morals  he  has  drawn  are  at  variance  with  the  intentions  of  the 
authors  of  those  silent  dramas,  and  with  our  own  ideas ;  yet  so  unique 
and  interesting  are  his  deductions,  that  we  shall  publish  each  month, 
in  this  department,  a  few  of  the  aphorisms  and  epigrams  of  The 
Photo  Play  Philosopher. — The  Editor.) 


Watching,  one  afternoon,  the  play  of  expression  on  the 
innocent  face  of  a  little  girl  while  fondling  a  beautiful  collie 
dog  in  the  photo-play,  "Jean  and  the  Waif,"  the  philosopher, 
bowed  with  the  weight  of  years,  realized  more  keenly  than 
ever  how  sublime  and  beautiful  is  childhood,  and  how  odious 
is  the  comparison  between  some  men  and  a  noble  and  intelli- 
gent dog. 

C  The  face  is  the  most  expressive  and  distinguishing  part  of 
our  anatomy;  otherwise,  when  we  visit  the  photographer,  we 
would  have  a  picture  taken  of  some  other  part. 

(I  The  passion  for  flattery  (appreciation)  is  as  natural  and 
as  common  as  the  sands  upon  the  seashore. 

(T  When  animals  and  children  do  not  like  you,  it  is  time  you 
took  an  inventory  of  character.  The  instinct  of  animals  and 
children  are  sometimes  more  discriminating  than  the  intelli- 
gence of  men. 

(I  All  men  do  not  see  alike.  All  men  do  not  think  alike.  All 
men  do  not  hear  alike.     All  eyes,  brains  and  ears  are  different. 


MUSINGS  OF  A  PHOTOPLAY  PHILOSOPHER. 


117 


C  Are  there  not  very  few  things  in  this  world  worth  getting 
angry  about?  Anger  does  no  good,  and  it  does  a  whole  lot 
of  harm,  both  to  the  person  angered  and  to  the  person  angered 
at.  The  cause  of  anger  is  ignorance  of  human  nature.  When 
we  are  lifting  a  heavy  weight,  we  do  not  get  angry,  because 
we  expected  it  to  be  heavy.  But  when  we  come  across  the 
work  of  a  destructive  child,  or  of  a  selfish  friend,  or  of  a 
dishonest  employe,  or  of  a  lazy  servant,  we  lose  our  temper; 
why? — are  not  these  to  be  expected?  Do  we  forget  the  weak- 
nesses and  frailties  of  human  nature?  If  we  know  them,  we 
should  expect  their  manifestations  occasionally,  and  while  they 
may  give  us  pain,  they  should  not  steal  our  equipoise.  We 
may  reprimand,  or  punish,  but  we  may  not  lose  our  temper  at 
what  we  are  bound  to  expect  all  thru  life. 


G  Good  readers  of  the  countenance  are  seldom  cruel;  animals 
have  no  countenances,  hence,  our  cruelty  to  them. 


G  The  critical  eye  and  the  critical  attitude  are  worthy  things 
to  possess,  but  they  often  make  the  owner  unhappy  as  well  as 
everybody  else.  They  are  useful  and  necessary,  however, 
because  the  world  would  hardly  progress  were  it  not  for  the 
grumblers  and  critics.  Discontent  is  the  mother  of  progress, 
and  the  critical  eye  points  the  way  to  perfection.  But,  would 
it  not  be  just  as  well  if  we  could  sharpen  our  eyesight  for  the 
virtues  of  others,  and  sometimes  forget  their  faults?  Some 
persons  refuse  to  give  credit  till  forced  to  by  overwhelming 
evidence  of  merit.  These  persons  are  constantly  on  the  out- 
look for  defects,  and  they  pass  over  the  merits,  as  flies  do  our 
good  parts  only  to  light  on  our  sores.  A  magnifying  glass 
brings  up  the  good  as  well  as  the  bad,  but  the  critic  magnifies 
only  the  bad. 

G  Love,  laugh  and  live  while  you  are  here,  for  there  is  no 
telling  what  you  will  be  doing  hereafter.  And  while  you  are 
at  it,  remember  that  there  are  others. 


G  As  all  evils  look  worse  by  anticipation,  so  do  all  troubles 
seem  greater  till  we  meet  them  face  to  face. 


G   We  like  him  best  who  likes  us. 
those  who  underrate  us. 


Our  hearts  harden  against 


118 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


CE  Our  young  people  are  taught  lots  of  things  in  school  which 
may  or  may  not  be  of  advantage  to  them  when  they  grow  up, 
but  there  is  one  subject  which  would  be  of  far  greater  value, 
and  it  is  not  taught  in  any  school  or  university  in  the  world — 
the  study  of  human  nature.  If  we  knew  the  human  heart,  if 
we  knew  the  passions  of  humanity,  their  desires,  their  joys, 
their  sorrows,  their  needs,  virtues,  weaknesses  and  vices,  how 
easy  it  would  be  to  make  a  living  and  to  do  good!  If  we 
were  to  open  a  store  in  a  certain  neighborhood,  we  would  know 
just  what  to  sell  and  at  what  price;  if  we  were  to  open  a 
theater,  we  would  know  just  what  plays  to  produce;  if  we 
were  to  make  application  for  a  job,  or  for  a  contract,  or  for 
patronage  of  any  kind,  we  would  know  just  what  was  wanted, 
and  could  conduct  ourselves  accordingly.  The  lawyer  address- 
ing a  jury  asks  himself,  What  will  they  say  to  this  line  of 
defense?  The  politician  or  office  seeker  inquires,  How  will  the 
people  take  this  or  that  attitude?  The  journalist  or  novelist 
wonders,  How  will  the  readers  like  this  or  that  policy?  In 
short,  if  we  knew  just  what  was  in  the  other  fellow's  mind, 
we  would  have  no  difficulty  in  pleasing  him,  and  if  we  can 
please,  we  will  never  want  for  a  means  of  making  a  living. 
At  present,  we  have  no  way  of  learning  the  human  heart  except 
in  the  school  of  experience,  and  in  this  school  there  are  very 
few  graduates,  and  myriads  who  never  pass  their  examinations, 
as  shown  by  the  courts  of  bankruptcy.  Cannot  some  man 
write  a  text  book  on  Human  Nature?  The  next  best  thing  to 
a  text  book,  is  a  picture  play. 


CE  Prurient  prudes,  feline  fossils,  and  sanctimonious  sciolists, 
all  are  opposed  to  the  moving  picture  shows.  They  were 
once  opposed  to  cards,  to  dancing  and  to  the  theater,  till  they 
found  that  opposition  was  useless. 

CE  Everyone  who  has  a  self  is  selfish,  and  cannot  help  looking 
at  all  things  from  his  own  point  of  view. 

CE  Having  reached  the  age  when  animal  passions  begin  to  sub- 
side, when  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt  are  not  so  tempting,  when 
the  venom  of  your  brute  nature  commences  to  turn  into  the 
milk  of  human  kindness,  when  you  have  learned  to  realize  the 
unwisdom  of  your  youth,  when  your  prejudices  have  been  out- 
grown and  your  superstitions  explained  away — then  you  may 
safely  announce  that  at  last  you  have  grown  up  into  a  full-sized, 
well-balanced,  equipoised  Man  whose  opinions  and  decisions 
are  worth  while 


EDITORIALS  BY  OUR  READERS. 


119 


To  the  Editor: 

I  came  across  a  copy  of  your  maga- 
zine, and  to  say  that  1  was  delighted 
does  not  express  my  satisfaction.  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  the  one-time  preju- 
dice against  the  much-reviled  photo- 
play is  rapidly  dying  out.  The  feeling 
against  it  has  given  place  to  one  of 
entire  approval  and  endorsement  from 
all  ranks.  The  managers  of  these 
motion  picture  houses  very  soon  real- 
ized that  the  public  wanted  good,  clean, 
and  instructive,  as  well  as  amusing- 
shows,  and  have  devoted  themselves, 
with  praiseworthy  energy,  to  the  im- 
provement of  the  scenarios,  pleasing  all 
tastes,  and  raising  the  general  standard 
of  photoplays.  To  such  an  extent  has 
this  been  done  that  the  best  known 
educators  and  clergymen  are  now,  not 
only  in  favor  of,  but  are  actually  using 
them  in  the  churches  and  educational 
institutions.  The  possibilities  of  these 
photoplays  are  infinite  and  can  be 
adapted  to  suit  the  needs  of  church, 
school  and  university,  as  well  as  mere 
amusement  seekers,  with  equal  facility, 
while  for  those  wishing  a  vivid  repre- 
sentation of  a  Shakespearian  drama  or 
of  the  latest  production  of  the  theatri- 
cal boards  with  real  scenery,  there  is  an 
unlimited  choice. 

Any  Sunday-school  teacher  finds  it 
easy  to  teach  from  pictures,  and  any 
clergyman  knows  that  if  he  announces 
that  a  moving  picture  exhibition  will 
be  given  in  the  parish  house,  that  the 
building  will  be  filled  on  that  date. 
These  lifelike  presentations  impress 
children  and  young  people  very  vividly. 
The  moving  pictures  convey  a  dramatic 
realization  to  the  child;  he  sees  the 
characters  he  has  been  taught  to 
revere,  in  their  best  and  most  natural 
lights,  as  they  actually  were  in  life,  and 
the  persons  he  has  been  taught  to  de- 
spise, with  all  their  evil  qualities.  The 
characters  being  vividly  portrayed  be- 
fore him,  he  can  see  their  faces,  their 
expressions,  and  therefore  sees  the  rea- 
son for  his  approval  or  disapproval. 
He  can  see  the  justice  in  it,  and  if  he 
cannot,  he  will  use  his  reason  and  find 
out  the  cause.  At  all  events,  these  pic- 
tures make  him  think  as  nothing  else 


could,  and  he  will  know  what  he  is  be- 
lieving and  why  he  believes  it.  The 
characters  on  the  pictures  carry  their 
own  conviction,  for  "Seeing  is  believ- 
ing." Good  luck  to  the  Motion  Pic- 
ture Magazine. 

Columbus,  Miss.,  Jan.  25,  1911. 
J.  S.  Langdon. 


To  the  Editor: 

Allow  me  to  compliment  you  on  the 
first  number  of  your  magazine  which 
came  to  our  home  last  Saturday.  We 
have  all  read  it  thro,  and  I  believe  it  has 
a  great  future.  So  have  the  moving 
pictures,  from  which  your  stories  and 
pictures  appear  to  be  taken. 

The  photoplay  furnishes  the  poorer 
classes  with  a  great  deal  of  innocent 
enjoyment,  and,  for  the  thousands  of 
persons  who  can  rarely  afford  to  go  to 
a  theatre,  it  is  an  especial  boon,  afford- 
ing, as  it  does,  an  inexpensive  method 
of  seeing  the  actual  representation  of 
plays  actually  portrayed  at  the  theatres. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  the  wide 
variety  of  the  individuals  who  patron- 
ize the  photoplay  house.  The  tired 
business  man,  the  harassed  physician, 
the  wearied  shopgirl,  the  worried 
mother  with  two  or  three  children,  the 
alert  lawyer,  are  familiar  figures  in 
these  places.  They  can  be  seen  enter- 
ing the  building  with  the  traces  of  care 
and  worry  only  too  apparent  on  their 
faces,  and  presently  coming  out  with  a 
lighter  step  and  bright  face,  temporar- 
ily -cheered,  at  least,  and  betrayed  into 
a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  their 
troubles.  The  motion  play  seems  to  be 
the  panacea  for  the  mental  ills  of  a 
vast  number  of  persons,  and  that  it  has 
met  with  the  decided  approval  of  all 
ranks  of  society  is  evidenced  by  the 
photoplay  houses  that  are  springing 
up  with  mushroom-like  rapidity  all 
over  the  country.  As  an  educator  and 
promoter  of  innocent  and  inexpensive 
pleasure,  the  photoplay  certainly  occu- 
pies a  desirable  and  unique  position  in 
modern  civilization,  and  I  believe  your 
magazine  will  fill  a  long-needed  want. 

Camden,  "N".  J.,  Jan.  24,  1911. 

Clara  M.  Turnbull. 


he  Motion  Picture 
Story  Magazine 

ANNOUNCEMENTS 

AMONG  the  features  that  will  appear  in  the  April  issue  are: 
L\  AGE  versus  YOUTH,  by  Roy  Mason,  whose  splendid 
-*■  -^  story,  "A  Republican  Marriage,'5  appears  in  the  present 
number.  This  is  an  interesting  story  of  Wall  street,  in  which 
the  principal  character  falls  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  his 
business  rival. 

THE  STORY  OF  ESTHER,  by  Montanye  Perry,  author  of 
"Herod  and  the  Newborn  King,"  which  story,  of  its  kind,  has 
perhaps  never  been  equalled. 

SENSATIONAL  LOGGING,  by  Marie  L.  Rask,  author  of  "An 
American  Count."  This  story  is  as  instructive  as  it  is  interesting 
and  exciting. 

SLEEP,  GENTLE  SLEEP,  by  La  Touche  Hancock,  the  well- 
known  writer  of  humorous  stories  and  verses.  This  is  just  the 
story  to  drive  dull  care  away. 

THE  COUNT  AND  THE  COWBOYS,  by  S.  N.  Aye,  a  real 
western  story,  told  in  real  western  style,  with  a  laugh  in  every 
paragraph. 

THOMAS  A  BECKET,  by  Luliette  Bryant;  a  story  from 
history,  but  none  the  less  fresh,  for  it  is  told  in  charming  style. 
THE  GAMBLER'S  END,  by  John  J.  a  Becket,  whose  reputa- 
tion as  a  writer  is  sufficient  guarantee  of  the  quality  of  thia 
interesting  story. 

Also  an  EASTER  STORY,  a  poem,  notable  scenes  from  photo- 
plays, and  the  usual  features. 

This  is  only  a  part  of  the  good  things  to  be  found  in  the  April  issue, 
and  all  will  be  profusely  illustrated  with  engravings  taken  from  photos 
of  the  Motion  Picture  films.  Also,  many  portraits  of  leading  picture 
players,  a  feature  that  will  make  this  magazine  almost  a  necessity  to 
the   Motion   Picture  public.  . 

COMING 

A  poem  by  WILL  CARLETON,  one  of  the  world's  greatest  living 
poets,  entitled  "The  Two  Lessons,"  (at  the  Moving  Picture  Hall),  with 
portrait  and  facsimile  signature  of  the  author. 

This  poem  was  written  expressly  for  this  magazine,  and  will  appear  in 
the  May  number. 

Another  surprise — a  poem  by  EDWIN  MARKHAM,  who  became  world- 
famous  as  the  author  of  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe,"  and  whose  many 
subsequent  poems  have  fully  sustained  his  great  reputation.  Mr.  Mark- 
ham  has  kindly  promised  our  readers  a  poem,  and  it  will  soon  be  an- 
nounced. 

N.B, — The  February  issue  of  this  magazine  is  exhausted ,  and  no  copies  can  be  had  at  any  price.  Readers  are 
now  advised  to  send  in  their  subscriptions  early,  because,  from  present  outlook,  the  100,000  copies  to  be  printed 
of  the  March  issue  -will  soon  be  sold. 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE,  26  COURT  STREET,  BROOKLYN,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


121 


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TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


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Managing    Director 


'better  run  faster,     he  sunk  for  th'  third  time. 


124 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


THE  CENTURY  PLAN  OF  LIBRARY  BUILDING  MEANS 

SAVING  TIME,  MONEY,  AND 
LIBRARY  SPACE 

WHY  SPEND  all  your  spare  money  on  the  complete  works  of  ONE  author,  and 
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DICKENS 

7  Vols.,  35  Illus. 


A  fine  edition,  one  of  its  features  the  original  covers:  Vols.  I  and  II  Pickwick  Papers;    X/^l,-^    ^£  1  ^. 
Ill  Oliver  Twist;  IV  and  V  David  Copperfield  ;  VI  Great  Expectations  ;  VII  A  Tale  of*  "  alUC   «p  l*5* 

Two  Cities,  Christmas  Carol,  Chimes,  Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 


GEORGE  ELIOT 

7  Vols. ,  28  Illustrations 


A  beautiful  edition  of  this  popular  author.  Typographically  perfect.  Pictor-  \/,«l,,^  <fc  1  A 
ially  superb.  Vol.  I  Adam  Bede;  II  Romola;  III  Romola;  Silas  Marner;  V  alUe  «pi*t 
IV  The  Mill  on  the  Floss;   V  Felix  Holt;    VI  Middlemarch;    VII  Middlemarch. 


Twenty  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  Balzac's  "  Comedie  Humaine" 
in  which  he  pictures  every   phase  of  French  life  and  character   under 
7  Vols. ,  28  Illus.    Scenes  of  Private  Life,  of  Provincial  Life,  of  Parisian,  of  Military  and  Country  Life,  and  Philosophical  Studies. 


BALZAC 


(Human  Comedy),  Vain**   4J1J. 

:r  the  classifications    »  ttlUC   *pit 


HI  TPO         Among   the   greatest  productions  of  literary  genius.   Les  Miserables  is  easily  the  most  X/jjln^   <fc  1  /I 

OUvlV/  imposing  literary  monument   of    the    Nineteenth    Century.      I-V    Les    Miserables — i     V  alUc   «p  1  *T 

7  Vols.,  28  Illus.    Fantine;  2Cosette;  3Marius;  4  Saint  Denis;  5  Jean  Valjean;  VI  Notre  Dame  de  Paris;   VII  Ninety- Three. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


Notable  for  the   beauty   of  its  illustrations  by  celebrated  \/al11~    *R14. 
modern  artists — Remington, Clinedinst,Castaigne,  DuMond,      »  CXlU©   «p  1  *T 
7  Vols.,  28  Illustrations  Kemble,  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  etc.      Twelve   titles,  including   Sketch-Book,  Knick- 

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DUMAS'  VALOIS  ROMANCES 


Some  of  the  finest  creations  of  Dumas  are  in-  \Zallltt    <fc  1  /I 
troduced  in   these  romances   which   present  a    »  <*1UC   «p  1  *T 
7  Vols.,  28  Illustrations    vivid  picture  of  the  France  of  the  Huguenots.  I  Marguerite  deValois;   II  Catherine  de  Medicis; 
III  La  Dame  de  Monsoreau;  IV  Chicot  the  Jester;  V  The  Forty-five  Guardsmen;  VI  Henry  of  Navarre,  VII  The  Conspirators. 


AINSWORTH'S  HISTORICAL 

ROMANCES      7  Vols.,  28  Illustration, 

Queen 


dramatic  periods  of  Val.la    dj  1  A 
rations    by    George     ▼  aiUe    «pit 


Thrilling  stories  of  the  most 

English    history,   with   illustrations    by    tieorge 

Cruikshank.      Vol.  I  Windsor   Castle,  A  Romance  of  the  Reign    of 
Henry  VIII;  II-III  Tower  of  London — 1  Jane  the  Queen;  2  Mary  the 
IV-V  Guy  Fawkes— 1  The  Plot;  2  The  Discovery;  VI-VII  Jack  Sheppard,  Part  1  ;   Jack  Sheppard,  Part  2. 


FITf  F1MF"    m  TF*  The  author  of   The  Mysteries  of  Paris  and  The  Wandering  Jew  has  had  hosts  "X/alii^    <fc  1  A. 
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7  Vols. ,  28  Illus.         without  a  peer.     The  Wandering  Jew,    Vols.  I-IV — 1  Inn  of  the  White   Falcon;    2  Hotel  de  Saint- 
Dizier;  3  The  Protector;    4  The  Cholera.     The  Mysteries  of  Paris  I-HI — 1  The  Tapis-Franc ;  2  Rigolette;    3  Doctor  Griffon. 


WALTER  SCOTT 

7  Vols. ,  28  Illustrations 

Kenilworth,  Quentin  Durward. 


A  collection  of  what  is  generally  considered  the  best  and  most  popular  \7oln^  *£  1  A. 
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that  date  will  be  accepted. 

You  do  not  need   to  be  a  subscriber  to  enter  the  contest. 
ANYONE  can  try  for  a  prize. 

READ  ADDITIONAL  PARTICULARS 
ON  OPPOSITE  PAGE 


i*U4!ifaUw  !■  M^MfliuyuiJ  jj  ih-i. 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE.  129 

You  Have 
3  Chances  for  a  Prize 

This  offer  will  appear  in  our  March,  April  and 
May  issues.  Prizes  will  be  awarded  to  the  winning 
contestants  on  a  story  appearing  in  any  one  of  these 
three  issues. 

You  may  send  in  3  answers 

One  on  the  best  story  in  the  March  issue, one  on  the  best  story 
in  the  April  issue,  and  one  on  the  best  story  in  the  May  issue. 
Thus  you  will  have  3  chances  for  a  prize,  tho  only  one 
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Enter  Contest  Now 

Read  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Decide  which  one  you  like 
best— not  the  one  you  think  WE  might  like  best;  we  want 
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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 

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130 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


I  'HE  trip  around-  the  world  is  looked  upon  as  an  essential  part 

•*•     of  the  education  of  the  scholar,  politician  and  man  of  business. 

"IF  you  have  imagination;  if  the  world  invites  you;  if  you  are  not 

A  content  to  have  seen  only  the  four  walls  of  your  home,  then 


you  must  travel. 

TF  time  is  an  obstacle— 

IF  money  is  an  obstacle— 

IF  family  ties  is  an  obstacle— 

JF  health  is  an  obstacle;  then  the 


Are  What  You  Want 


30,000  Miles 
of  Travel 


through  40 
Cities  and 
Countries 


Cost  $250,000 
and  20  Years ' 
Work 


4,000  Pages 

of  Descriptive 

Text 

5,000 

Half-tone 

Etchings 

36  Full-'Page 
Color  <Plaies 


{and  you  can 

secure  all  of 

them  for  a 

few  cents 

a  day) 


In  the  TRA  VELOGUES  you  have  the  opportunity  to  gain  that 
broader  view  of  things  a  knowledge  of  the  world  gives  you. 

In  a  series  of  splendid  journeys  Mr.  Holmes  unfolds  before  your  eyes  the  beauties 
of  travel  in  foreign  lands,  with  such  narrative  skill,  with  so  many  strange  experi 
ences,  incidents  and  humorous  episodes  and  so  admirably  illustrated  by   over 
5,000  photographs  taken  on  the  spot  by  Mr.  Holmes  himself  as  to  carry  you 
in  spirit  over  30,000  miles  of  travel  through  forty  of  the  most  interesting 
countries  and  cities  of  the  world. 


M.P. 


It  would  cost  you  $50,000  and  many  years  of  your 
time  to  take  these  journeys  ;  but  don't  take  our  word  for  it. 

Write  us  today  and  we  will  send  you  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  Branden- 
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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


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CASSELCSjS^LOPvEDIA  OPNKHANICS 

AGolqotne  Of  MecmanicalReptwence 


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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


0 


A  Shanghaid  Sailor 

will  tell  in  The  Pacific  Monthly  the  plain,  straightforward,  and  absorbingly 
interesting  details  of  his  experiences  aboard  a  whaler  in  the  Arctic.  Do  you 
realize  that  more  than  fifty  per  cent  of  the  men  who  go  to  the  Arctic  each  year 
in  the  Arctic  whaling  fleet  are  shanghaid? 

Henry  A.  Clock,  who  tells  the  story,  is  an  intelligent  young  American  who 
was  kidnapped  on  the  waterfront  of  San  Francisco  and  who  secured  his  facts, 
as  he  did  his  blows,  at  first  hand.  This  story  will  run  through  the  Fall  and 
Winter  numbers  of 

The  Pacific  Monthly 

During  191 1  some  unusually  strong  and  readable  story  will  appear  in  The 
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Winter,  the  dean  of  dramatic  critics,  will  contribute  several  of  his  able  articles 
on  the  stage.  Captain  Kleinschmidt's  vivid  and  interesting  account  of  Polar 
Bear  hunting  will  also  appear  in  an  early  number.  Jack  London,  D.  E.  Der- 
mody,  Harvey  J.  Wickham,  George  Sterling,  Dr.  Stephen  S.  Wise  and 
many  other  authors  of  note  will  contribute  stories  during  the  coming  months. 
The  work  of  Felix  Benguiat,  William  Maxwell  and  Charles  B.  Clark,  Jr., 
will  appear  exclusively  in 

The  Pacific  Monthly 

Each  month  Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood  will  contribute  his  "  Impressions, " 

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These  "Impressions"  will  discuss  in  an  independent  and  fearless  manner 

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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


133 


New  York  gets  LIFE  at 

II  A.  M.  every 

Tuesday. 


IVhen 

Can 
You  Buy 

Life? 


LIFE  is  on  sale  in  Chicago 

at  1:30  P.  M.  every 

Tuesday. 


Life   is   officially   dated   Thursday  of  each   week. 
But  you  can  actually  buy  it  on  the  news  stands  of 


New  York 
Chicago 
Boston 
Philadelphia 
San  Francisco 
New  Orleans 
Portland,  Ore. 
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every  Tuesday 
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"  Tuesday 
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Friday 

Wednesday 
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noon 

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Subscription,  $5.00  a  year 


Life  lias  the  largest  news 
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Foreign,  $6.04 
LIFE.  16  W.  31.  New  York 


134 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


TRAVEL  TO  THESE  PLACES  IN  FEBRUARY 

Join  our  very  select  and  personally  conducted  party  and  travel  in  leisurely  fashion  through 

HOLLAND  LONDON  BERNE  JAPAN 

PERU  BUDAPEST  CHINA  EISENACH 

HELIGOLAND  RANGOON  CAIRO  ARIZONA 

NEW  MEXICO  MANDALAY  SEVILLE  POMPEII 

You  need  not  leave  the  comfort  of  your  library  fireside — you  will  not  have  to  catch  steamers  or  trains — 
you  will  not  have  to  endure  polar  cold  or  tropical  heat.  You  will  have  none  of  the  inconveniences  of  travel 
and  yet  all  of  its  pleasures  and  advantages.  You  will  become  familiar  with  the  world  by  close  contact — you 
will  be  at  home  everywhere  and  have  at  least  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  people  in  every   city   of  the  world. 

Here  in  detail  are  a  few  of  the  charming  glimpses  of  the  world  which  you  will  have  in  February: 


FROM  RANGOON  TO  MANDA 
LAY,  by  S.  R.  Vinton  This  article 
is  a  narrative  of  one  who  is  thor- 
oughly familiar  with  Burma.  The 
manners  and  customs  of  this  re- 
markable part  of  the  world  as 
well  as  the  physical  qualities  of 
the  country  are  set  down  with  the 
greatest  fascination. 

HELIGOLAND,  by  Dr.  Perry  Wor- 

den  The  recent  edict  to  the  ef- 
fect that  in  the  future  tourists 
would  not  be  allowed  further  in- 
land than  the  seashore  has  turned 
the  eyes  of  the  world  toward  this 
place  and  makes  this  article  of 
timely   note. 

OVER  THE  ANDES  IN  A  HAND- 
CAR The  novelty  of  this  ar- 
ticle aside  from  its  adventurous 
and  descriptive  features  will  make 
it     a     very     striking     part     of     the 


magazine,  especially  on  account 
of  its  unusual  photographs. 
THE  LATTER  DAYS  OF  POM- 
PEII Mr.  Heriry  James  Forman 
is  the  author  of  a  number  of 
books  on  travel  and  he  shows  in 
this  article  the  same  keen  sym- 
pathy with  the  subject  as  in  his 
larger  books.  He  makes  Pompeii 
live   again. 

CHEESE  DAY  AT  ALKMAAR, 
by  Blair  Jaekel  Tells  of  the  hu- 
morous possibilities  in  the  quaint 
little  Dutch  town  of  Alkmaar  and 
the  cheese  industry. 
BUDAPEST  ON  THE  "BLUE 
DANUBE."  by  Schuyler  M.  Meyer 
Comparatively  few  people  have 
any  idea  as  to  the  beauty  of  this 
city  of  Austria-Hungary  or  of  its 
interesting  people.  Its  pictur- 
esque position  on  the  Danube  and 
its    many    scenic    and    architectural 


beauties  are  shown  here  in  an 
entertaining   manner. 

TIPPING  AS  A  FINE  ART      The 

author  of  this  article,  Frank  X. 
Finnegan,  writes  from  a  full 
heart — he  has  had  to  distribute 
largesse  to  waiters  and  other 
servants  all  over  Europe,  and 
what  he  has  to  say  on  the  subject 
will  strike  a  chord  of  sympathy 
in  every  reader.  And,  incident- 
ally, it  will  get  a  laugh. 

ARIZONA   AND    NEW   MEXICO 

The  communities  of  the  Pueblo 
Indians,  those  compact  little 
towns  of  stone  and  adobe,  Ori- 
ental in  aspect  and  each  with  a 
local  government  of  its  own,  are 
not  only  graphically  described  by 
Charles  Francis  Saunders,  but  the 
life  and  manners  of  these  inter- 
esting people  are  depicted  with 
incisive    detail    and    interest. 


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travel   information,   pleasure   and   inspiration? 

McBRIDE,  WINSTON  &  CO 

PUBLISHERS 
449   Fourth  Avenue.   NEW   YORK 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE.  135 

ATTAINMENT  OF  EFFICIENCY 

By  W.  R.  C.  LATSON,  M.D.,  Editor  of  Health  Culture       s>         HEALTH-CULTURE  CO., 
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What  some  noted  authorities  say 
about  it. 

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LL.D.,  University  of  California,  Berk- 
eley, Cal. :  "An  enterprise  which  can  not 
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tions are  vital  and  inspiring  to  new 
thought." 

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Pa.:  "The  pronunciation  is  clearly 
marked,  and  there  is  much  condensed 
information  in  etymology.  The  illustra- 
tions, also,  are  remarkably  good." 


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WORKING   IN   THE   ROCKIES 


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Entered  in  the  Brooklyn  Post  Office,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  as  Second-Class  Matter. 


MISS    GEXE   GAUNTIER,   KALEM 

Amorg  picture  artists  Miss  Gene  Gauntier  has  deservedly  gained  a  most  prominent  position. 
A  host  of  admirers  have  been  won  by  her  charming  portrayal  of  roles,  many  of  which  were  her 
own  creation.  With  grace  and  cleverness  she  adapts  herself  equally  well  to  a  great  variety  of 
parts,  some  of  which  have  been  enacted  on  two  continents.  Many  scenarios  have  been  written 
by  her,  with  parts  self  assigned,  which  in  many  instances  required  real  bravery  in  execution.  "Sailor 
Tack's  Reformation"  and  "The  Fiddle's  Requiem"  are  two  popular  picture  plays  of  which  Miss 
Gauntier  is  the  author  and  in  which  she  played  a  leading  part,  and  she  is  also  author  of  the  story, 
''Sailor  Jack's    Reformation,"   which   appears   in   this   number. 


■ 


GALLERY  OF  PICTURE  PLAYERS 


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MISS      RITA     DAVIS      (LUBIN) 


MISS      KATHRYNE     WILLIAMS     (SELIG) 


MISS 
FLORENCE 

WRAGLAND 
(  LUBIN ) 


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______ 


CESSANA Y) 
( ES S A  NAY) 


(  GA  U  M  ONT) 
,'  EDI  SOX 


G.     M.     ANDERSON      (ESSANAY) 

One  of  the  youngest  men  in  the  moving  picture  world,  yet  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  industry,  is  G.  M.  Anderson, 

who  first  became  prominent  as  a  photoplayer,  then  as  a  director,  then  as  a  playwright,  and  finally  as  a 

manufacturer.     He  seems  to  succeed  equally  well  in  all  that  he  undertakes,  and  he  is 

recognized  as  one  of  the  strongest  players  in  the  business. 


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Qicture   @tory 

Magazine 

(Copyright,  1911.  by  The  M.  P.  Publishing  Co.) 
mm mm  -inm  Mar 

CONTENTS    FOR    APRIL,    1911 


Vol.  I.     No.  3 


Priro   /  FIFTEEN    CENTS    THE    COPY 
T  I  ILe   \  ONE  DOLLAR  FIFTY  THE  YEAR 


GALLERY  OF  PICTURE  PLAYERS : 

Miss   Rita   Davis    I 

Miss   Kathryn   Williams    2 

Miss  Jennie   Nelson    3 

Miss  Laura   Sawyer    4 

Albert    McGovern    5 

Miss  Florence   Wragland    5 

Miss   Mabel    Trunnelle 6 

Herbert    Prior    6 

Miss   Alice   Donovan    7 

Joseph    Dailey    7 

Charles    Ogle    7 

Mile.    Gisele    Gravier    7 

G.   M.  Anderson 8 

PICTURE  STORIES: 

His  Trust,  by  General  Horatio  C.  King 11 

Athalia,    by    Montanye    Perry 22 

Sailor  Jack's  Reformation,  by  Gene  Gauntier 28 

The   Doctor,   by  Luliette   Bryant 41 

How  Mary  Met  the  Punchers,  by  Marie  C.  Rask 48 

Tho  Your  Sins  Be  as  Scarlet,  by  Montanye  Perry 60 

Sensational  Logging,  by  Marie  Coolidge  Rask 80 

Age  vs.  Youth,  by  Roy  Mason 89 

The    Medallion,    by   Ruth    Brewster 99 

The  Eye  of  Conscience,  by  L.  Case  Russell 105 

The  Count  and  the  Cowboys,  by  S.  N.  x\ye 118 

The   Story   of  Esther,  by  Montanye    Perry 74 

Sleep,  Gentle  Sleep,  by  La  Touche  Hancock in 

POEMS: 

A  Varied  Career,  by  L.  Case  Russell 26 

NOTABLE  SCENES  FROM  PHOTOPLAYS: 

'Iheodora  and  Justinian,  from  the  photoplay  by  Elbert   Hubbard 27 

Popular    Animal    Players    * 40 

The    Death   of   Admiral    Coligny 59 


The    Rose    Carnival 

The   Love   of  Chrysanthemum 

Life   of   Napoleon    

Life    of    Moliere    

EDITORIAL: 

Editorials    

Musings  of  a   Photoplav   Philosopher 1  27 

SPECIAL  ARTICLES: 

The  Influence  of  the  Picture  Play,  by  Aurelius  Heltberg 122 

A    December    Dip    07 

Notes  of  the   Picture    Plavers 10 


12.S 


12 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


X 

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^^^^H&I^^^H^kSkI 

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ON    THE    BATTLEFIELD. 


not  until  1864,  when  Sheridan  was 
sent  into  this  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey,  was  the  importance  realized 
of  devastating  this  region  and  making 
it  impracticable  for  the  Confederates 
again  to  undertake  to  make  excursions 
into  Maryland  and  Pennsylvania,  at  so 
long  a  distance  from  their  base  of  sup- 
plies. Sheridan  made  it  impossible  for 
them  to  subsist  upon  the  country. 

It  was  a  sad  piece  of  business,  this 
conflict  of  brother  against  brother,  a 
struggle  to  the  death  in  which  the 
South  consecrated  its  noblest  sons,  and, 
before  the  war  ended,  had  literally 
robbed  the  cradle  and  the  grave.  The 
men  at  the  front  were  diverted  by  the 
daily  routine  of  camp  and  march  or  the 
terrible  ordeal  of  actual  combat;  but 
what  praise  shall  be  accorded  the  heroic 
women  who  yielded,  with  unsurpassed 
fortitude,  their  husbands,  brothers  and 
sons  to  the  demands  of  country,  and  to 
a  cause  the  justice  of  which  they  be- 
lieved from  the  deepest  depths  of  their 
hearts.  But  the  one  problem  that  gave 
the  gravest  concern  was  the  probable 
attitude  of  the  slaves  who,  with  the 
aged  or  decrepit  men,  unable  to  bear 
the  stress  of  campaigning,  were  left  be- 
hind to  carry  on  the  farm  and  to  pro- 
tect the  women  and  children.     There 


is  no  parallel  in  history  to  the  conduct 
of  the  slaves  during  this  momentous 
crisis.  They  realized  fully  what  the 
success  of  the  Union  Army  meant  for 
them,  and  yet,  with  singular  devotion, 
they  accepted  the  charge  laid  upon  them 
by  their  masters,  and  in  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  instances  never  be- 
trayed their  trusts.  All  honor  to  the 
faithful  blacks,  who,  yearning  for  free- 
dom, nevertheless  stood  firm  and  true 
to  the  ideals  of  affection  and  integrity 
born  and  bred  in  them  by  life-long  asso- 
ciation with  their  white  masters.  It  is 
of  one  such  that  this  story  has  to  tell. 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  Shenan- 
doah, not  more  than  ten  miles  from 
Winchester,  and  not  far  from  the  fa- 
mous battlefield  of  Cedar  Creek,  stood 
a  farmhouse,  commodious  but  not  pre- 
tentious; a  typical  country  residence, 
built  of  the  native  limestone  and  beau- 
tifully shaded  by  a  grove  of  stately 
oaks.  The  owner,  or  master,  as  he  was 
styled  in  Virginia,  was  a  man  of  about 
twenty-five,  with  a  commanding  figure, 
well  rounded  out,  a  determined  face 
and  with  all  the  attributes  of  a  true 
Virginia  gentleman.  His  business 
took  him  frequently  to  Winchester, 
where  he  was  exceedingly  popular. 
John   Frazier,   familiarly   called  Jack, 


HIS    TRUST. 


13 


was  his  name,  and  his  parents,  much 
advanced  in  years,  were  long-time  and 
prominent  residents  of  the  quaint  old 
town.  The  other  occupants  of  the 
farm  were  his  dear  wife  and  child,  their 
first-born,  an  infant  in  arms,  and  the 
slaves.  Altho  opposed  to  the  secession 
of  Virginia,  as  were  a  majority  of  the 
people  of  that  Commonwealth,  never- 
theless when  the  State  seceded  and 
joined  its  fortunes  with  the  Cotton 
States,  he  threw  himself  heart  and  soul 
into  the  contest  and  busied  himself 
promptly  with  raising  a  regiment  of 
which  he  was  chosen  Colonel.  The 
anguish  of  his  wife  when  he  announced 
his  purpose  and  donned  the  Confederate 
gray  almost  prostrated  her,  but  patriot- 
ism nerved  her  to  endure  the  sacrifice, 
and  with  heart-breaking  tears  she  ap- 
proved his  decision  and  bade  him  go 
forth  to  do  his  full  duty  to  his  country. 
But  the  dread  problem  presented  it- 
self— :  To  whom  is  to  be  entrusted  the 
care  of  the  loved  ones  and  the  property 
during  his  absence?  for,  his  mother 
and  father  had  died  several  years  be- 
fore. In  the  household  was  an  old 
servant,  George,  formerly  owned  by 
Colonel  Frazier's  father,  and  who  had 
been  transferred  to  the  new  owner  upon 


his  father's  death.  George  had  carried 
Jack  in  his  arms  in  infancy;  he  had 
toted  him  on  his  back  until  the  child 
outgrew  that  fascinating  method  of 
travel,  and  had  always  held  toward  him 
almost  the  relation  of  parent.  In  fact, 
he  really  felt  that  he  had  been  in  some 
sense  the  equal  of  a  father,  and  surely 
he  had  not  been  second  to  him  in  his 
tender  affection  and  devotion.  He  was, 
moreover,  a  sort  of  "head-over/7  and 
oracle,  of  the  other  domestics.  To 
him,  therefore,  Colonel  Jack  naturally 
turned  for  the  protection  he  desired. 

"George,"  said  Colonel  Jack  to  the 
old  negro  one  day,  "you  see  that  I  have 
joined  hands  with  my  beloved  State 
and  am  going  to  the  war.  It  may  be 
a  long  one  and  perhaps  I  may  never 
return.  I  have  no  one  to  whom  to 
entrust  my  dear  ones,  and  the  care  of 
the  farm,  but  you.  You  have  nurtured 
and  cared  for  me  from  my  infancy.  I 
have  brought  you  into  my  domestic 
household  because  of  this  life-long 
guardianship  and  affection.  Today 
my  regiment  goes  to  the  front.  My 
darling  wife  and  child  I  must  leave 
behind.  Around  her  perhaps  the  bat- 
tle may  sometimes  rage,  and  she  may 
be  subjected  to  the  incursions  of  the 


:'K 

^, 

1    Kit; 

\P»1i^. 

COLONEL    FRAZIER    WOUNDED. 


14 


THE    MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


stragglers  and  thieves  of  both  armies. 
Can  I  leave  everything  to  your  care, 
trusting  wholly  in  your  devotion  to  me 
and  to  them?" 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  his  sob- 
bing wife  threw  herself  half-fainting 
and  hysterical  upon  his  shoulder. 

George's  eyes  were  moistened,  too, 
and  as  the  big  tears  coursed  down  his 
black  cheeks,  he  seized  his  beloved 
master  by  the  hand  and  kist  it  rev- 
erently. 

"Massa  Jack,"  said  the  slave,  when 
he  had  regained  his  composure,  "you 
has  been  my  boy  since  you  was  a  baby, 
and  I  has  know'd  mistress  since  you 
and  her  played  t'gether  in  Winchester, 
as  little  boy  and  girl.  I  lubs  you  jest 
as  if  you  was  my  own  children,  and 
I'se  gwine  to  stand  by  dem,  and  be  a 
gyardine  to  my  blessed  mistress  and 
dat  lovely  baby  'slong  as  dere's  a  bref 
left  in  dis  ole  body." 

There  was  no  distrusting  the  sincer- 
ity of  this  answer,  and  so,  with  a  re- 
lieved anxiety,  but  a  heavy  heart,  he  held 
wife  and  baby  in  a  long  embrace,  kist 
them  both,  mounted  his  horse,  and, 
waving  his  hand  to  the  assembled  do- 
mestics, rode  rapidly  away  toward  Win- 
chester, and  there  he  rejoined  his  regi- 


ment which  was  about  to  move  to 
strengthen  the  forces  at  Martinsburg 
under  the  command  of  the  brilliant 
Confederate  General  Johnston.  They 
were  soon  to  have  their  mettle  tested 
in  the  horrible  scourge  of  battle. 

The  Valley  first  figures  in  the  war  by 
the  presence  in  1861  of  a  Union  force 
under  General  Patterson,  which  the 
wiley  General  Johnston  outwitted. 
Leaving  the  Union  soldiers  to  enjoy 
the  picturesque  sight  of  deserted  tents 
and  abandoned  camp  fires,  General 
Johnston  had  skipped  blithely  thru 
Manassas  Gap  just  in  time  to  turn  the 
tide  of  battle  at  Bull  Bun,  and  to  send 
our  raw  recruits  panic-stricken  back  to 
and  thru  Washington,  some  not  halting 
until  they  reached  their  peaceful 
homes  in  Maine.  Their  excuse  was 
that  they  received  an  order  to  retreat 
and  that  they  never  heard  it  counter- 
manded. To  make  such  concessions  is 
frank,  in  view  of  the  assurance  that, 
according  to  some  Southern  accounts 
of  the  period,  the  Confederates  never 
ran  away,  but  invariably  retired  in 
good  order  in  the  face  of  superior 
numbers. 

For  a  beginning,  this  initial  battle 
did  very  well,  tho  it  dwindled  into  in- 


11  Ell  HUSBANDS  SWORD. 


HIS    TRUST. 


15 


significance  after  the  great  conflicts  on 
the  Peninsula,  at  Antietam,  Chancel- 
lorsville,  Gettysburg  and  elsewhere. 
Both  sides  were  untried,  and  poorly 
drilled  and  disciplined.  In  the  morn- 
ing the  advantage  was  with  the  Union 
troops,  before  whom  the  Confederates 
were  retiring,  but  the  opportune  arrival 
of  Johnston's  reinforcements  reversed 
conditions  with  the  inevitable  panic  to 
be  expected  from  green  troops,  a  large 
part  of  whom  had  scarcely  indulged 
even  in  target  practice. 

Our  Colonel  Jack  was  there  with  his 
regiment,  and  he  was  in  the  forefront 
of  the  battle,  which  raged  with  great 
bitterness  on  the  Henry  farm. 

"Look  at  Jackson's  brigade !"  ex- 
claimed Lee,  "it  stands  there  like  a 
stone  wall !"  and  thus  was  nicknamed 
one  of  the  greatest,  and,  next  to  Lee, 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  the  leaders  of 
the  Confederacy.  The  line  taken  up 
by  Stonewall  Jackson  was  a  very  strong 
one.  The  ground  was  high  and  cov- 
ered in  the  rear  by  a  heavy  wood.  Lee, 
Barton  and  Evans  rallied  on  this,  and, 
here,  too,  came  the  much  needed  and 
timely  reinforcements  from  the  Shen- 
andoah Valley.  Against  these  the 
Federal  commander,  McDowell,  had  at 
hand  the  brigades  of  Sherman,  Will- 
cox,  Franklin  and  Porter,  also  Palmers' 
battallion  of  regular  cavalry  and  the 
regular  batteries  of  Eicketts  and 
Griffin. 

It  was  the  21st  of  July  and  fearfully 
hot.  These  troops  had  been  under 
arms  since  midnight,  and  were  weary 
from  their  long  and  dusty  march  from 
the  Potomac.  But  the  assault  was 
bravely  made,  the  northern  part  of  the 
plateau  was  carried,  Eickett's  and  Grif- 
fin's batteries  secured  a  position  near 
the  Henry  house,  and  everything 
seemed  to  favor  the  Union  side.  Back 
and  forth  over  this  bloody  field  the  tide 
of  battle  ebbed  and  flowed.  Rapidly 
the  troops  from  the  Shenandoah  were 
hurried  to  Jackson's  support,  as  fast  as 
they  could  be  debarked  from  the  arriv- 
ing cars.  So  long  as  these  batteries 
held  out,  the  battle  was  not  lost.  And 
here  occurred  one  of  those  accidents 
which  bore  heavily  upon  the  result,  if 


it  did  not  actually  cause  the  defeat  of 
the  Union  Army.  Just  when  their  in- 
fantry supports  had  been  driven  back, 
a  regiment  of  infantry  came  out  of  the 
woods  to  the  right  of  Griffin.  Believ- 
ing it  to  be  Confederates,  he  was  aoout 
to  open  on  it  with  canister  at  short 
range,  when  Major  Barry  insisted  that 
they  were  Union  troops  sent  to  support 
his  battery.  But  a  deadly  volley 
proved  his  mistake.  Nearly  every  can- 
noneer and  horse  was  cut  down,  and  the 
usefulness  of  the  battery  was  destroyed. 
Eicketts  suffered  equally.  Desperately 
wounded  and  with  Lieutenant  Ramsey, 
next  in  command,  killed,  further  re- 
sistance was  impossible.  The  tide  had 
finally  turned  in  favor  of  the  Confed- 
erates and  Bull  Eun  past  into  history. 

Colonel  Frazier's  regiment  was  sent 
to  reinforce  Jackson.  Twice  it  had 
been  called  upon  to  resist  flank  move- 
ments, the  last  penetrating  the  rear  of 
some  small  earthworks  which  had  been 
previously  thrown  up  in  anticipation  of 
this  fight.  It  was  here,  while  heroically 
meeting  and  repelling  the  second 
charge,  that  Colonel  Frazier  fell, 
pierced  thru  the  lungs  by  a  minnie  ball. 
His  faithful  adjutant  caught  him  in 
his  arms,  and,  dragging  him  to  the 
rear  and  out  of  the  range  of  fire,  re- 
ceived from  him  the  last  messages  to 
his  darling  wife.  He  asked  that  lie 
might  be  buried  where  he  fell,  and  his 
last  words  were  pitiful.  He  begged 
that  his  sword  should  be  delivered  to 
his  wife,  as  a  lasting  and  sacred  me- 
mento of  his  devotion  to  the  cause  for 
which  he  Lad  given  up  his  young  life. 

"Take — this — sword  to — her,"  ho 
gasped,  "give  her — my  love,  and — tell 
George — to  be  faithful — to  his  trust.'* 

The  cessation  of  hostilities  for  a  time 
enabled  the  adjutant  to  carry  out  the 
wishes  of  liis  beloved  Colonel. 

Who  shall  attempt  to  describe  the 
meeting  of  the  messenger  of  this  sad 
news  and  the  widowed  and  broken- 
hearted wife?  lie  described  with  en- 
thusiastic praises  the  gallantry  of  his 
friend  and  Colonel  he  delivered  with 
extreme  tenderness  the  last  messages  of 
the  dying  hero,  he  admonished  the 
weeping  slave  to  be  faithful,  and,  plac- 


16 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY    MAGAZINE. 


LOOTING   Till-    WIDOW  S   HOME. 


ing  the  sword  in  the  stricken  widow's 
hands  he  bade  her  a  sorrowful  farewell. 

It  is  said,  with  what  truth  each 
reader  may  decide,  that  misfortunes 
never  come  singly.  Soon  the  battle 
raged  once  more,  and  the  Shenandoah 
became  the  field  of  its  devastations.  A 
marauding  party  of  stragglers  came 
upon  the  widow's  home.  Despite  her 
tears  and  entreaties,  they  ruthlessly  de- 
spoiled the  building,  scattered  the  fur- 
niture about,  removed  all  that  they 
could  make  use  of,  and,  not  satisfied 
with  this,  they  set  the  house  on  fire. 
There  is  no  apology  for  this,  tho  both 
sides  had  many  such  incidents  to  their 
discredit.  War  is  barbarism,  but  the 
great  Cvil  War  exhibited  less  of  it  than 
any  war  of  ancient  or  modern  times. 

Anticipating  no  harm,  the  mother 
had  gone  out  for  a  walk,  and  was  re- 
tracing her  steps,  when  the  ascending 
smoke  aroused  her  to  her  danger  and 
loss.  Her  child  was  in  the  burning 
house. 

The  trusted  George  was  in  the  field 
at  work  at  the  time,  but,  seeing  the 
flames,  he  rushed  to  the  house  and 
thru  the  billowing  smoke  into  the  up- 
per chamber.  He  seized  the  child  just 
as  the  angry  flames  were  darting  thru 


the  windows  and  up  thru  the  cracks  in 
the  floor.  Dashing  thru  the  hallway, 
down  the  shadowy  «stairs  beneath  the 
crackling  timbers  he  at  last  reached 
the  fresh  air  and  breathlessly  placed 
the  child  into  the  arms  of  its  half- 
crazed  mother.  Then  he  recalled  the 
precious  sword,  and  again  with  eager 
zeal  ran  back  into  the  house,  now  al- 
most enveloped  in  flames,  seized  the 
relic  from  its  resting  place  above  the 
mantle,  and  returning  to  his  mistress 
laid  it  at  her  feet.  Then  the  poor  old 
slave  sank  exhausted.  If  the  lone 
woman  had  lost  her  husband  and  the 
home,  she  still  had  her  child,  and  her 
dead  husband's  sword.  And  then,  too, 
she  had  her  faithful  slave,  and  it  was 
well  that  she  did. 

The  dastardly  marauders  had  hur- 
ried away  for  fear  of  capture,  leaving 
the  heart-broken  widow  to  brood  in 
sorrow  over  the  loss  of  home  and  pos- 
sessions. 

The  beloved  house  is  a  hopeless 
ruin.  Sadly  she  stands  and  watches 
the  last  timbers  fall.  Her  property 
was  all  dissipated.  His  parents  were 
dead,  and  her  own  relatives  and 
friends  were  stripped  of  their  support 
by  the  ravages  of  war.     There  was  no 


HIS    TRUST. 


17 


GEORGE   LEADS   THE   WIDOW   AWAY. 


one  to  whom  she  could  turn  for  help. 
As  the  awful  loneliness  of  her  posi- 
tion crowded  upon  her,  her  eyes  turned 
toward  her  faithful  slave.  Before 
him  were  freedom  and  independence; 
to  escape  to  the  North  was  easy. 
Would    he    go    and    leave    her  ?     No ! 


There  was  no  such  thought  in  his  mind, 
There  sat  his  beloved  mistress  with  her 
orphaned  child.  Could  he  desert 
them?  The  solemnity  of  his  promise 
to  the  dead  master  surged  in  his 
breast.  On  one  hand  liberty;  on  the 
other,  faithfulness  to  his  trust.     The 


•3ft 

•"> 

1 

■  "      \ 

'DIS   YEItE   IS   YO'   ABIDING   PLACE/'  SAID  GEORGE. 


18 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


situation  was  trying,  but  the  decision 
not  long  delayed.  Taking  his  mis- 
tress by  the  hand,  and  with  tears  fill- 
ing his  eyes,  he  fell  reverently  upon 
his  knees. 

"Dear  mistress/'  he  sobbed,  "I 
promised  de  dead  Colonel  dat  I'd  be 
true  to  him  an'  to  you;  dat  I'd  neber 
desert  you  an'  as  de  Lawd  is  my  jedge 
I'll  keep  my  word.  My  ole  log  cabin 
shall  be  yours;  an'  dese  old  fingers  '11 


be  worked  to  de  bone  for  yo'  comfort 
an'  support." 

The  widow  looked  sadly  down  into 
the  old  negro's  eyes,  but  said  not  a 
word ;  then,  taking  the  little  one  in  his 
arms,  he  led  them  to  his  humble  cabin. 

"Dis  yere  is  yo'  abiding  place,  an'  I 
can  spread  my  blanket  outside  de  doa 
till  de  better  days  comes." 

Thus  far  the  old  slave  has  been 
faithful  to  his  trust. 


THE  SEQUEL  * 


His    Trust 
Fulfilled 


Four  years  have  elapsed,  and  smiling 
peace  once  more  rests  upon  the  whole 
land.  The  South  has  accepted  the 
Constitutional  Amendment  that  freed 
the  slaves,  and  the  emancipated,  for 
the  most  part,  have  availed  them- 
selves of  their  freedom.  But,  to  the 
faithful  George  this  change  meant 
only  a  better  opportunity  to  fulfill  his 
self-imposed  obligation.  He  had  sup- 
ported his  mistress  and  her  child  all 
these  years,  without  a  murmur,  and 
without  a  thought  of  leaving  them. 


The  heart-broken  wife,  worn  with 
worry  and  privations  to  which  she  was 
unused,  at  last  pined  away  "and  died. 
Her  last  moments  were  soothed  by 
the  unsolicited  promises  of  black 
George  that  he  would  care  for  and  pro- 
tect her  little  daughter,  now  rapidly 
growing  toward  womanhood. 

To  keep  the  child  in  the  log-cabin 
was  no  longer  practicable.  The  awful 
losses  of  the  protracted  war  had  cre- 
ated an  unusual  demand  for  labor,  and 
faithful  workers  found  steady  employ- 


CYRUS   TAKES    NELLIE   TO    THE   LAWYER'S. 


HIS    TRUST. 


19 


VmMW*-  ^*-   if 

mm      ImS             - 

ii 

i 

YEARS  PASS  BY  AND  NELLIE  BLOSSOMS  INTO  YOUNG   WOMANHOOD. 


merit,  tho  at  low  wages.  Determined 
to  do  his  utmost,  he  arranged  thru  a 
friendly,  kind-hearted  lawyer  in  Win- 
chester, Carson,  by  name,  to  provide 
for  her  a  comfortable  home  and  edu- 
cation, and  to  conceal  from  her  the 
real  source  of  her  support. 

Several  uneventful  years  thus  pass, 
until  Nellie  Frazier  blossomed  into 
young  womanhood,  and  during  all 
these  years  the  old  slave  remained  her 
benefactor  and  friend. 

Then  came  the  natural  craving  for 
a  higher  education.  To  the  lawyer 
who,  as  intermediary  for  George,  had 
acted  also  as  her  guardian,  she 
broached  the  subject  and  with  tears 
importuned  him. 

"I  must  go  away,"  she  said ;  "I  can- 
not be  forever  dependent  upon  charity. 
I  must  get  an  education  at  some  fine 
school,  so  that  I  may  teach  and  earn 
my  own  living/' 

To  the  lawyer,  himself  ruined  by 
the  war,  and  recovering  slowly  his 
long-suspended  practice,  such  a  plan 
seemed  wholly  impracticable.  But  he 
had  underestimated  the  zeal  and  fidel- 
ity of  the  hero,  under  whose  black  skin 
beat  a  heart  as  pure  and  white  as  snow. 
To  him  Mr.   Carson  repeated  Nellie's 


importunities   and  his   own   apprehen- 
sions. 

"De  chile  sho  shall  have  her  way," 
heartily  responded  George;  "I'll  kill 
myself  wif  work  if  de  good  Lawd  says 
so." 

There  was  more  severe  labor,  and 
even  greater  self-denials,  that  Nellie 
might  have  her  wish  gratified,  and  so 
she  was  sent  to  a  famous  school  in 
Baltimore. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  term  the  old 
slave  found  it  impossible  to  earn  the 
large  amount  necessary  to  meet  the 
school  expenses.  He  was  at  his  wit's 
end.  Cast  clown  and  hopeless  he 
wended  his  way  to  the  lawyer's  office 
to  unfold  his  tale  of  disappointment 
and  defeat. 

There,  by  one  of  those  circumstances 
which  seem  to  be  the  direct  outcome 
of  providential  interposition,  he  found 
one  of  the  relatives  from  England,  a 
distant  cousin,  seeking  the  address  of 
Nellie  Frazier.  The  stranger  was 
talking  earnestly  to  Mr.  Carson  as 
George  entered,  and  the  former's  over- 
coat was  thrown  carelessly  upon  a 
chair.  From  the  breast  pocket  of  the 
coat  there  protruded  a  fat  pocket-book. 
George   saw   it   and   he   was   tempted. 


20 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


GEORGE  IS  TEMPTED. 


Would  it  not  keep  Nellie  at  school? 
Would  it  not  solve  all  his  difficulties? 
The  temptation  was  too  much  for  the 
negro;  and,  yielding  to  the  impulse, 
he  surreptitiously  seized  the  wallet  and 
hastily  concealed  it  in  his  own  pocket. 
But  he  kept  it  only  for  a  moment.  It 
burned  in  his  bosom.     Stricken   with 


remorse,  he  quickly  returned  the  wallet 
to  the  stranger's  pocket.  It  was  the 
work  of  a  moment,  but,  sudden  tho  it 
was,  it  was  observed  by  Mr.  Carson. 
The  lawyer  charged  the  humiliated 
George  with  the  theft;  but,  realizing 
the  motive,  and  the  temporary  aberra- 
tion which  had  prompted  the  act,  he 


AFTER   THE    WEDDING. 


HIS    TRUST. 


21 


GEORGE  HAPPY  WITH  HIS  MASTEE  S  SWORD. 


sent  him  away  with  a  slight  reprimand. 
The  angels  themselves  must  have 
viewed  the  negro's  act  with  sorrow, 
rather  than  with  condemnation. 

The  English  envoy  had  something 
greater  than  idle  curiosity  in  his 
search.  Blest  with  the  means,  he 
sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  beauti- 
ful Nellie  and  they  met.  It  was  a 
case  of  love  at  first  sight,  and  the  Eng- 
lish purse  opened  to  enable  Nellie  to 
complete  her  studies. 

A  year  passes.  Nellie  has  arduously 
pursued  her  duties  at  school,  but  love 
has  grown  with  each  day,  and  has  at 
last  become  impatient.  The  term  is 
ended.  Teachers  and  pupils  over- 
whelm Nellie  with  regrets  and  flowers 
on  her  departure,  and  she  returns  to 
Winchester,  where  lawyer  and  lover 
greet  her  with  affectionate  welcomes. 
The  happy  day  cannot  be  long  de- 
ferred. There  is  scarcely  time  to  cre- 
ate   the    not    too    elaborate    trousseau, 


when  the  wedding  bells  peal  forth,  and 
Lawrence  Frazier  and  Nellie  Frazier 
are  made  man  and  wife.  In  the 
assembled  group  at  the  wedding- 
festival  stands  George,  his  eyes  suf- 
fused again  with  tears,  but  this  time 
they  are  tears  of  gratitude  and  joy,  as 
he  sees  his  heart's  fondest  wish  ful- 
filled. 

As  the  happy  couple  speed  away,  fol- 
lowed by  the  congratulations,  rice,  and 
cheers  of  the  guests,  George,  beaming 
with  happiness,  and  elastic  of  step,  went 
back  to  his  humble  home.  Over  his 
rough  fireplace  for  years  a  sword  had 
been  hanging.  It  was  his  master's, 
that  had  been  left  him  by  the  widow. 
Day  by  day  he  had  looked  at  it  with 
loving  eyes,  but  he  had  never  taken  it 
down.  Now,  he  tenderly  lifts  the  sabre 
from  the  nail,  and  presses  it  to  his 
breast.  He  kisses  and  fondles  it  tend- 
erly, happy,  thrice  happy  in  the  reali- 
zation that  he  has  fulfilled  his  trust. 


ATHALIA,  QUEEN  OP  JUDAH 


Bv  Montanue  Perry 


IT  was  a  Sabbath  morning  in  Jeru- 
salem.    The    daily    clamor    of    the 

streets  was  hushed;  the  usual  bustle 
of  life  was  suspended;  the  air  was 
laden  with  the  peaceful  calm  of  a  Jew- 
ish Sabbath. 

Within  the  temple,  the  children  of 
Judah  were  assembled  for  worship. 
Daily,  for  seven  years,  had  their 
prayers  arisen,  beseeching  the  God  of 
David  to  grant  them  a  worthy  occu- 
pant of  the  throne  of  Judah.  To- 
day they  plead  for  some  miracle  to  de- 
stroy the  wicked,  idolatrous  Athalia, 
and  give  them  a  son  of  David.  Kneel- 
ing, they  prayed  with  one  voice. 

As  the  people  arose  and  went  quietly 
out  of  the  temple,  calm  in  that  fervid 
faith  which  was  their  heritage,  the  high 
priest,  Jehoiada,  wended  his  way, 
quickly,  under  stately  colonnades  and 
arches,  thru  gleaming  marble  corri- 
dors, to  the  apartment  where  his  wife, 
Jehoshabeath,  sat  awaiting  his  coming. 

Jehoiada  sat  clown,  glancing  from 
his  wife  to  the  couch  where  a  child  lay 
sleeping,  a  tangle  of  dark  curls  cluster- 
ing about  his  rosy  face,  his  round, 
dimpled  arms  thrown  upward  against 
the  scarlet  pillows. 

"He  looks  but  a  babe,"  said  the  high 
priest,  with  a  sigh,  "yet  the  time  has 
come." 

"Thou  meanest  it  not,  my  husband," 
said  the  woman,  her  sweet  face  paling. 

"It  must  be,"  returned  Jehoiada, 
"the  prayers  of  the  people  must  be 
answered.  It  is  rumored  that  Athalia 
is  even  planning  to  lead  her  warriors 
against  the  temple  to  destroy  it !" 

"It  is  impossible.  Even  she  could 
never  dare  such  a  deed,  Jehovah  would 
destroy  her." 

"Jehovah  hath  given  into  our  hands 


the  power  to  dethrone  this  wretched 
woman,"  said  the  high  priest,  sternly, 
with  another  look  toward  the  sleeping 
child.  "The  lad  must  take  his  throne. 
Be  not  so  troubled,  the  Lord  will  guard 
him,  even  as  he  has  unto  this  time." 

As  they  spoke,  the  child  stirred  rest- 
lessly, stretched  his  slender  limbs,  and 
sat  upright,  pushing  the  curls  away 
from  his  clear,  dark  eyes,  and  smiling 
affectionately  at  the  woman 

"I  have  been  dreaming,"  he  said. 
"I  thought  I  was  a  king.  My  uncle 
held  me  up  in  the  beautiful  gate  of  the 
temple,  and  all  the  people  bowed  down 
to  me.  And  I  was  not  a  man,  just  a 
little  boy,  as  I  am  now.  Was  it  not 
strange  to  dream  that  a  little  boy  could 
be  a  king?" 

The  high  priest  and  his  wife  ex- 
changed startled  glances. 

"I  say  the  time  has  come,"  said  the 
man,  "tell  him  the  story." 

"Come  here,  little  one,"  said  the 
woman,  and  as  the  lad  ran  to  her,  joy- 
ously, she  gathered  him  close  in  her 
arms  and  looked  earnestly  into  the  clear 
eyes.  "If  thou  wert  truly  a  king,  what 
wouldst  thou  do?" 

"Destroy  the  wicked  Athalia  and  the 
temples  of  Baal,"  said  the  child, 
promptly,  "so  that  all  our  people  might 
be  happy  and  my  uncle  and  thee  would 
grieve  no  more.  And  I  would  give 
thee  velvet  robes  and  a  crown  of  jewels, 
because  I  love  thee,  my  aunt." 

He  paused,  his  rosy  face  against 
hers,  and  she  held  him  silently  for  a 
moment.  Then,  obedient  to  her  hus- 
band's insistent  look,  she  began  slowlv : 

"I  have  told  thee  often  of  thy 
mother,  who  placed  thee  in  my  arms, 
and  died,  when  thou  wert  but  one  dav 
old.     I   have  told   thee,   too,  how  thv 


22 


ATHALIA,  QUEEN  OF  JUDAH. 


23 


father  fell  in  battle  that  same  day,  so 
thou  wert  left  to  my  care.  I  have  told 
thy  father's  name,  Ahaziah,  but  I  have 
never  told  thee  the  name  of  his  mother, 
thy  grandmother." 

She  waited,  and  the  child,  sobered 
by  her  serious  manner,  placed  a  small 
hand  against  her  cheek,  saying,  "Go  on, 
what  was  her  name?     Does  she  live?". 

"She  lives,"  replied  the  woman, 
holding  the  child  closer,  "and  her  name 
is  Athalia." 

"Not  the  wicked  queen !"  cried  the 
lad,  his  cheeks  scarlet  with  excitement, 
"she  is  not  my  grandmother,  my 
father's  mother?" 

"Yes,  little  one,"  answered  Jehosha- 
beath,  "it  is,  indeed,  the  queen.  At 
last  I  must  tell  thee,  and  thou  must  be 
my  brave  lad,  for  thou  art  indeed  a 
king,  and  kings  are  brave." 

The  lad's  shoulders  straightened,  the 
dark  head  lifted  proudly.  It  was  as  if 
an  invisible  mantle  from  generations  of 
kingly  ancestors  had  fallen  about  him. 
The  clear  eyes  looked  courageously,  un- 
derstandingly,  into  the  woman's. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  quietly. 


"Thy  father,  after  his  father's  death, 
was  greatly  influenced  by  Athalia. 
She  it  was  who  drove  him  forth  into 
the  wars,  where  lie  fell  by  the  sword 
of  his  enemies.  Thy  mother  was  my 
sister.  When  she  knew  that  she  was 
dying,  she  called  me  to  her,  saying, 
'Hide  this  child  away,  until  his  father 
comes.  I  fear  Athalia.'  She  called 
her  other  children,  three  noble  boys 
and  two  fair  girls,  kist  them,  and  died. 
An  hour  later,  news  came  of  thy 
father's  fall.  One  hour  more,  and  thy 
brothers  and  sisters  all  lay  dead,  mur- 
dered by  the  monstrous  Athalia,  that 
she  might  reign  as  queen.  We  told  her 
thou  wert  born  dead,  and,  tho  sh^ 
doubted  us,  we  had  hidden  thee  securely 
and  no  one  knew  our  secret.  Xow  the 
time  has  come " 

She  broke  off,  looking  appealingly 
at  her  husband,  who  took  up  the  story, 
gazing  earnestly  at  the  boy. 

"Now  the  time  has  come  for  thee  to 
go  into  the  temple  and  be  anointed  and 
take  thy  kingdom.  On  some  day,  not 
far  distant,  the  temple  shall  be  filled 
with  armed  Levites,  pledged  to  serve 


m 

— . — . — _ — r,„„,,,„,v, 
*A        f 

f  ' 

< 

nil  ir,^ 

-  4 

tZL^g 

* 

s                   

MEANWHILE,  ATHALIA  SAT   IN   COUNCIL  WITH   THE  PRIESTS  OF  BAAL. 


24 


THE  MOTION-  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"RALLY  OUR  FOLLOWERS — TODAY  SHALL  JEHOVAH'S  TEMPLE  FALL." 


thee,  and  thou  shalt  stand  forth  and 
defv  Athalia.  Thou  art  not  afraid, 
lad?" 

"Nay  !"  cried  the  boy,  slipping  from 
the  woman's  knee  and  standing  straight 
and  proud,  his  dark  eves  lit  with  royal 
fire.     "Shall  a  king  be  afraid?" 

Meanwhile,  Athalia  sat  in  council 
with  the  priests  of  Baal.  For  weeks 
they  had  been  urging  a  bold  scheme 
upon  her. 

"Gather  your  forces  and  destroy  the 
temple  of  Jerusalem,"  they  said.  "It 
is  to  the  Jews  the  sacred  abiding  place 
of  their  God.  Destroy  this  temple  and 
you  scatter  their  forces,  check  their 
power,  and  weaken  that  faith  in  Jeho- 
vah which  is  the  foundation  of  +heir 
strength." 

The  vengeful  queen  hesitated.  In 
spite  of  her  haughty  arrogance,  her 
mind  was  torn  with  doubt  and  forebod- 
ing. Were  Baal  and  his  priests 
greater  than  the  God  Jehovah?  She 
was  ever  troubled  ■  by  thoughts  of  the 
insecurity  of  her  hold  upon  the  throne. 


the  dread  of  being  deposed  and  dis- 
honored, and  the  lurking  fear,  never 
disclosed,  that  somewhere,  a  child  was 
hidden  away  who  would  reach  out  a 
tiny  hand  to  grasp  her  scepter. 

Sitting  late  with  the  priests  one 
night,  her  spirits  grew  bolder  under 
their  artful  encouragement,  and  she 
rashly  promised  to  begin  immediately 
to  marsh  all  her  forces  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  sacred  edifice. 

Left  alone,  Athalia's  elation  van- 
ished, and  she  became  a  prey  to  super- 
stitious fears.  Her  mind  ran  back 
thru  the  years  and  she  thought  of  the 
dead  body  of  her  infamous  mother,  dis- 
honored; of  her  husband,  slaying  his 
brethren  to  confirm  himself  in  his 
power;  of  her  son,  weakly  yielding  to 
her  vile  influence.  Suddenly,  before 
her,  in  the  clear  moonlight  on  the  bare 
floor,  there  lay  five  white,  stark,  young 
bodies,  staring  at  her  with  wide  eyes, 
while  behind  them  stood  a  slender, 
rosy  lad,  with  a  tangle  of  dark  curls, 
wearing  the  features  of  her  dead  son, 
looking  at  her  with  the  eyes  of  her 
dead  son's  wife. 


ATHALIA,  QUEEN  OF  JUDAH. 


25 


With  a  shriek,  she  sprang  from  tier 
chair,  but  the  room  was  empty. 

"It  was  a  foolish  dream/'  she  mut- 
tered, angrily,  "tomorrow  I  will  go  to 
the  temple.  There  will  I  judge  the 
strength  of  these  sons  of  Judah  and 
plan  their  downfall." 

As  the  morning  sacrifice  was  pre- 
pared in  the  temple  and  the  waiting 
people  bowed  reverently,  Jehoiada  was 
astounded  to  see  Atbalia,  in  her  sump- 
tuous robes,  looking  on. 

"Thou  false  one !"  he  cried,  raising 
his  right  arm  and  pointing  to  the  inso- 
lent queen,  "go !  Worshipper  of  Baal, 
thou  canst  not  appear  at  Jehovah's 
sacrifice." 

Awed  by  the  high  priest's  vehem- 
ence, the  queen  withdrew,  but  as  she 
went,  she  trembled,  for  among  the 
worshippers  she  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  child's  rosy  face,  with  a  tangle  of 
dark  curls.  It  was  the  face  of  her 
dream ! 

Desperate  with  fear,  Athalia  fled  to 
the  court  of  the  temple  of  Baal.  "Rally 
our     followers !"      she     cried     to     the 


startled  priests;  "today  shall  Jehovah's 
temple  fall !" 

The  morning  sacrifice  was  ended. 
The  people  filed  out  of  the  temple,  but 
instead  of  seeking  their  homes  as  usual, 
they  stood  about  in  the  court  and  ad- 
jacent streets,  quietly  waiting. 

Within  the  temple,  a  strange  scene 
was  in  progress.  Guards,  Captains  of 
Tens  and  Captains  of  Hundreds,  from 
all  parts  of  Juclea  assembled,  swiftly 
and  silently,  every  man  in  an  assigned 
place,  armed  with  the  sacred  arms  of 
King  David.  When  all  was  in  readi- 
ness, Jehoiada  appeared,  lifting  the 
child  Joash  high  in  his  arms,  and  say- 
ing, "Behold  the  king's  son  shall  reign, 
as  the  Lord  hath  said  of  the  sons  of 
David." 

Instantly,  a  body  of  armed  Levites, 
the  new  king's  body-guard,  encircled 
the  pair,  and  as  Jehoiada  solemnly  an- 
ointed the  child,  a  great  cry,  "God  save 
the  king,"  went  up  in  the  temple  and 
was  caught  up  by  the  waiting  hundreds 
outside. 

The  cry  fell  upon  the  ears  of  Athalia 
and  her  followers,  rapidly  advancing  to 


fe 

- 

m 

W1'  ft  * 

ml 

#1  1       If 

1 

\ 

.1  * 

f  w 

ill 

r"    "'  i ' 

—     JM 

"<5^3 

fcisfe 

^g* 

;  J 

ATHALIA,  PIERCED  BY  A  SCORE  OF  SPEARS,  LAY  LIFELESS  UPON  THE  STONES. 


26 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


the  temple.  They  stopped,  in  rage  and 
consternation. 

"Let  us  go  back/'  said  the  wary 
priests,  "we  are  too  late." 

"jSTo  !"  shrieked  Athalia,  mad  with 
rage  at  thought  of  her  lost  power,  "I 
will  storm  the  temple  alone,  if  I 
must  \" 

Bushing  wildly  to  the  door,  she  was 
admitted,  but  armed  guards  held  her 
followers  back. 

In  dazed,  half-incredulous  dismay, 
the  dethroned  queen  gazed  about  her  at 
the  silent  throngs  of  armed  men,  and 
the   calm,    stern   faces   of   the   priests. 


Then,  in  the  inner  court,  standing  be- 
side the  high  priest,  she  saw  a  slim, 
straight  lad,  with  a  crown  on  his  dark 
curls,  his  clear  eyes  looking  fearlessly 
into  hers. 

There  was  a  tense,  breathless  silence 
in  the  temple,  until  Jehoiada  spoke : 

"Slay  her  not  in  the  house  of  the 
Lord.     Take  her  forth." 

And  when,  at  the  beautiful  gate  of 
the  temple,  the  new  king  was  lifted 
high  to  receive  the  homage  of  his  peo- 
ple, Athalia,  pierced  by  a  score  of 
spears,  lay  lifeless  before  him,  upon  the 
stones. 


A    VARIED    CAREER 

By  L.  Case  Russell. 

I've  roughed  with  the  Texas  cowboys 

When  they  strung  up  a  horsethief  bold, 

I've  wandered  amid  the  splendors 

Of  Belshazzar's  court  of  old, 

At  Hempstead  Plain 

In  an  aeroplane, 

I've  j'isen  to  heights  untold. 

I  have  passed  from  the  court  of  Arthur 

With  its  knights  and  ladies  gay; 

Thru  an  Indian  encampment 

On  Dakota's  bluffs  of  clay; 

Then,  'neath  the  wave 

With  a  diver  brave, 

Where  the  fishes  dart  and  play. 

For  me  the  heroes  of  fiction 

Have  stepped  from  the  printed  page; 

I  have  witnessed  love  and  hatred 

In  every  place  and  age. 

All  kinds  of  men 

Have  crossed  my  ken, 

From  fool  to  seer  and  sage. 

The  Wandering  Jew  you  think  me 

Doomed  thru  all  time  to  go 

A  restless,  ceaseless  spirit 

Upon  land  and  sea  below? 

No — this  and  more 

Are  behind  the  door 

Of  a  Motion  Picture  Show. 


SAILOR  JACK'S  REFORMATION 


By  Gene  Gaunfler 


Then   we'll   ro-o-11   the   o-o-ld   chariot 

along, 
Then   we'll    ro-o-11    the    o-o-ld    chariot 

along " 

DOWN  the  street  the  little  proces- 
sion marched  to  the  inspiring  tune 
pounded  out  of  the  head  of  a  huge 
bass  drum,  accompanied  by  a  rhythmic 
jangle  of  tambourines,  voices,  and  oc- 
casional cries  of  "Glory  Hallelujah"  in 
a  sweet,  feminine  voice  that  rose  above 
the  medley  of  sounds. 

The  Salvation  Army  had  been  get- 
ting recruits  rapidly  of  late,  and  was 
conducting     an     unusually     successful 
campaign  down  in  the  section  that  was 
chiefly  inhabited  by  sailors  and  long- 
shoremen.    There    was    a    magnetism 
about    the    young    captain,    a    young 
woman  who  had  recently  been  sent  to 
the  barracks,  which  attracted  both  men 
and  women;  and   the  sturdy  Lieuten- 
ant, who  knew  so  well   how  to  bring 
soulful  strains  of  music  out  of  a  bass 
drum,  was  one  of  the  first  to  fall  under 
the  spell  of  those  pleading,  brown  eyes 
that  wrought   such   havoc  in  the  con- 
science of  sinners.     There  were  times 
when  he  almost  wished  himself  back  at 
the    mourners'    bench,    if   for    nothing 
more  than  to  receive  words  of  sympa- 
thy and  encouragement  from  the  slight, 
little  woman  whose  fervor  and  enthusi- 
asm were  bringing  about  a  reformation, 
more  or  less  permanent,  in  the  daily 
life  of  Eoustabout  Cove. 

It  was  a  June  evening,  but  there 
was  no  scent  of  flowers  at  the  Cove. 
Instead,  it  smelled  rather  too  strongly 
of  wet  goods,  both  salt  and  spiritous. 
for  several  ships  of  varying  build  and 
capacity  had  put  in  that  dav.  and  manv 
a  home  along  the  shore  had  been  glad- 


dened by  the  safe  return  of  a  rollicking 
sailor. 

Jack  Martin  had  no  home.  If  he 
had,  it  is  possible  he  might  not  have 
grown  to  be  the  hardened  sinner  that 
he  now  considered  himself.  There 
were  others  of  his  ship  in  the  same 
position,  and  when  he  and  his  com- 
rades assembled  on  deck,  a  few  hours 
before  the  sound  of  drum  and  tam- 
bourines smote  upon  the  air,  they  had 
mapped  out  a  plan  for  the  celebration 
of  their  shore-leave,  which  would  have 
caused  the  gentle  Captain  with  the 
large,  brown  eyes  to  sigh,  rather  than 
to  sing,  as  she  marched  down  to  the 
Seven  Corners  and  started  the  concert. 
"Come,  oh,  come  with  me-e-e," 
sounded  the  clear  treble  of  the  girl, 
starting  the  chorus  of  the  last  hymn 
over  again,  just  as  Jack  and  his 
"buddy"  hove  in  sight  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  nearest  saloon. 

"All  right — all  right — we're  a-com- 
in',"  shouted  the  tars,  who  had  onlv 
just  started  on  the  first  round  of  their 
celebration.  "Got  anything  to  drink? 
We're  awful  dry." 

The  music  ceased  and  the  Captain's 
voice  rose  in  reply. 

"The  water  of  life  is  offered  freely," 
she  said,  "and  whosoever  will  may 
come." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  angelic  face  of 
the  speaker,  perhaps  it  was  really  the 
something  good  that  is  in  the  worst  of 
us.  which  made  Jack  silence  the  rude 
reply  of  his  companion. 

"If  it's  free,  tell  us  about  it,"  said 
Jack. 

"Come  with  us  to  the  Mission  and  I 
will  tell  you."  answered  the  lassie,  look- 
ing steadfastly  into  the  bold  eyes  of 
the  sailor.     The  procession  moved  on, 

29 


30 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


'COME   WITH   US   TO   THE   MISSION,      ANSWERED   THE   LASSIE. 


but  the  magnetic  influence  had  been 
extended,  and  Jack  followed  the  brown- 
eyed  Captain  who  had  pleadingly 
whispered :  "Come." 

At  the  meeting,  where  sorrow  and 
misery  untold  were  wafted  upward  on 
the  wings  of  prayer,  the  little  Captain 
told,  with  eyes  brimful  of  tears,  and 
hands  raised  in  supplication  and  out- 
stretched in  entreaty;  told  of  truths 
Jack  had  heard  before,  but  which  had 
never  held  a  special  meaning  for  him- 
self. She  told  of  the  pearl  of  happi- 
ness without  price,  of  \  hat  life  might 
be  even  for  such  as  he,  and  then,  as 
he  suddenly  realized  that  for  the  first 
time  since  his  boyhood  his  face  was 
wet  with  tears,  she  gently  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  head  and  again  said  the 
one  word,  "Come." 

And  again  Jack  followed,  this  time 
to  the  mercy  seat,  and  knelt,  while  the 
sweet-faced  Captain  prayed. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  life, 
and  Jack  thrived  under  its  influence 


and  beneath  the  sunshine  of  Captain 
Agnes'  smiles.  She?  Who  can  fathom 
a  woman's  heart?  It  must  be  the 
mother  instinct  that  makes  some 
women  love  the  weaker  men — the  ones 
who  need  them  most — else  why  should 
Agnes  turn  from  the  sincere,  serious, 
handsome,  young  co-worker,  Lieuten- 
ant Landers,  to  smile  on  and  to  help 
the  crude,  rough  sailor? 

As  the  Mission  emptied  one  night, 
some  weeks  later,  Jack  sat,  testament 
in  hand,  but  heedless  of  its  teaching. 
He  watched  the  Captain  closely  and  his 
heart  was  filled  with  jealousy  even  of 
the  veriest  outcasts  to  whom  she  gave 
her  hand  in  kindly  greeting,  before 
each  passed  again  into  the  dangers  of 
life  without.  He  heard  the  Lieutenant 
come  down  the  aisle  and  say  something 
to  the  Captain  about  walking  with  her 
to  the  barracks. 

"Captain  Agnes,  would  vou  mind  to 
explain  this  here  lesson  a  bit  ?  I.  can't 
seem  to  get  the  right  understanding," 
interrupted  Jack. 


SAILOR  JACK'S  REFORMATION. 


31 


There  was  no  question  as  to  the  Cap- 
tain's willingness  to  expound  the  Scrip- 
tures, but  when  she  sat  down  beside 
her  pupil,  and  took  the  book  in  her 
hand,  it  was  quite  clear  that  Jack's 
understanding  was  very  dense,  indeed. 

Up  and  down  the  aisle  paced  Lieu- 
tenant Landers,  while  the  patient  little 
woman  instructed,  explained  and  ad- 
monished her  pupil.  It  would  not  do 
to  let  poor  Jack  go  with  that  beauti- 
ful passage  imperfectly  understood.  It 
might  cause  discouragement  and  retro- 
gression. 

"Don't  wait  for  me  any  longer,"  she 
said,  fearing  that  the  Lieutenant  might 
be  growing  impatient.  "Jack  will  be 
going  down  our  way.  You  will  let  me 
walk  down  with  you,  won't  you,  Jack  ?" 
she  asked,  turning  toward  the  promis- 
ing convert. 

Would  he?  It  was  the  very  object 
for  which  he  had  contrived  that  Scrip- 
ture lesson,  but  he  had  not  dared  hope 
that  she  would  evince  any  preference 
for  his  company. 

J  ieutenant  Landers  sighed.     He  had 


planned  to  tell  Agnes  of  his  love  that 
night,  but  if  a  soul's  salvation  was  at 
stake  he  was  not  the  one  to  let  thoughts 
of  self-interest  interfere.  He  had 
duties  yet  to  perform  at  the  men's 
lodging  house,  where  he  went  every 
night  to  have  prayers  with  those  of  the 
lodgers  who  cared  to  attend,  so  he  did 
not  insist  upon  remaining.  His  love, 
he  knew,  would  not  diminish,  no  matter 
how  long  the  time  of  waiting ;  and  her 
love,  if  once  won,  he  felt  sure  would  be 
of  the  kind  that  would  wait  forever. 

It  was  remarkable  how  quickly  Jack 
understood  that  lesson,  now  that  the 
Lieutenant  had  gone. 

"You  have  made  it  as  clear  as  tho 
I  seen  them  miracles  myself !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "If  I'd  a-lived  in  them  days 
I  s'pose  I  could  a  been  cured  to  onct 
of  all  my  deviltry  and  been  a  better 
man,"  he  continued,  regretfully,  seek- 
ing to  prolong  the  conversation. 

"But  the  miracles  still  go  on,"  an- 
swered the  little,  spiritual  guide. 
"You  are  even  now  converted  and  con- 
version   means     turning.      You    have 


GUIDED  BY  THE  GENTLE  TOUCH  OF  THE  LASSIE  HE  KXELT  IX  PRAYER. 


32 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE. 


turned  from  your  sins  and  are  not  a 
bad  man.  Instead,  yon  are  a  good  man 
and  yon  are  going  to  be  still  better." 

"But  the  strength  to  do  better  you 
have  given  me/"  replied  Jack,  bluntly. 

"It  does  not  require  much  strength 
to  influence  those  who  are  led  by  the 
spirit  of  love/"'  she  said.  "I  have  seen 
a  beautiful  picture  of  strong  beasts 
being  led  by  a  little  child  with  a  face 
like  that  of  an  angel/' 

"That  may  be  true."  admitted  the 
seeker  after  righteousness,  "but  I 
know  I  can't  go  on  being  good  without 
you,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 
You're  the  first  person  who  ever  seen 
any  good  in  me.  You  are  the  only  one 
who  ever  told  me  I  was  a  good  man  and 
might  get  to  be  better.  You're  the 
one  life  saver  that  pointed  the  way,  and 
now  I've  got  to  the  port  where  I  can't 
get  no  further  unless  you  ship  on  the 
same  boat.  I  know  I've  had  a  rough 
passage,  and  I  ain't  no  more  fit  to  be 
in  the  same  class  with  you  than  them 
beasts  you  say  was  to  be  with  the  little 
child,  but  I'm  starting  on  a  new  voyage, 
now,  and  I  tell  you,  girl,  I'll  need  a 
pilot  every  inch  of  the  way." 

Agnes  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity 
of  the  speaker.  She  had  heard  good 
resolutions  many  times  before.  She 
knew  they  were  always  sincere  at  the 
time  they  were  spoken.  The  great 
problem  was  how  to  help  poor  souls  to 
live  up  to  them  and  not  to  fall  back  into 
lives  of  degradation.  While  Jack  was 
telling  of  his  shipwrecked  past,  of  his 
present  resolves,  and  his  future  hopes, 
she  had  noticed  the  faint  flash  of 
spiritual  light  shining  far  below  the 
surface  of  the  man's  life,  and  believed 
that,  as  the  light  grew  stronger,  it 
would  increase  in  brilliancy  until  the 
whole  soul  was  illumined.  He  had  no 
home;  he  had  never  known  a  mother's 
love;  he  had  never  before  been  under 
good  influences.  What  might  he  not 
have  been  had  his  life  been  cast  in  a 
different  mold?  Her  heart  filled  with 
pity  for  the  pleading  creature  before 
her.  A  great  love  for  the  noble  man 
of  her  ideals  which  he  might  have  been 
and  which,  with  help  and  guidance,  he 
might  yet  become,  came  over  her. 


"Agnes,  my  Captain,  are  you  going 
to  be  my  pilot?" 

Jack  asked  the  question  earnestly, 
wistfully.  Captain  Agnes  was  consid- 
ering. For  several  moments  she  hung 
her  head  in  thought,  and  then  she 
looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  Jack,"  she  said  softly. 

Lieutenant  Landers  received  the 
news  next  day  with  sadness  not  un- 
mingled  with  fear  for  the  happiness 
of  the  woman  he  loved.  He,  too,  had 
heard  good  resolutions  before,  and  he 
knew  how  prone  new  converts  were  to 
fall  from  grace.  Perhaps  he  knew 
from  experience  just  how  long  and  dif- 
ficult the  struggle  is  for  one  unused  to 
the  straight  and  narrow  road  leading 
to  perfection. 

"I  wonder  if  the  fellow  will  ever 
have  the  patience  and  the  moral  cour- 
age to  keep  straight,"  he  said  to  him- 
self again  and  again. 

Agnes  had  been  but  a  child  when  her 
parents  died,  and  all  her  girlhood  had 
been  spent  amid  the  dreary  routine  of 
life  in  an  orphanage.  Later,  she  had 
gone  to  service  as  nursemaid  and  then 
into  the  Army.  It  was  not  surprising, 
therefore,  that  the  little,  two-room  cot- 
tage in  a  nearby  fishing  village,  to 
which  Jack  took  his  bride,  seemed  a 
veritable  paradise  to  both.  Jack  had 
given  up  the  sea  when  Agnes  relin- 
quished the  Army  life,  and  he  in  his 
rough  way,  and  she  with  all  sweetness 
of  spirit,  tried  to  make  each  other 
happy.  During  the  day  she  sang 
about  her  tasks  and  when  evening  came 
she  never  failed  to  be  down  on  the 
beach  to  welcome  her  burly  husband. 
Jack  was  yet  far  from  perfection  and 
he  often  caused  his  fragile  wife  to  sigh 
over  his  outbursts  of  temper. 

"I  must  be  patient,"  she  would  say 
to  herself.  "He  will  overcome  it  all  in 
time,  for  his  heart  is  good  and  he  loves 
me  well.  I  will  wait  in  faith  and  love, 
and  I  know  I  shall  not  be  disap- 
pointed." 

The  day  that  Aenes  put  on  her  new 
print-dress  she  had  just  finished  mak- 
ing to  go  to  meet  Jack  after  his  day's 
fishing,  no  thought  of  coming  sorrow 


SAILOR  JACK'S   REFORMATION. 


had  entered  her  mind.  She  hummed 
softly  as  she  thought  of  the  joyous 
secret  that  she  was  going  to  tell  her 
husband  after  the  evening  meal,  and 
she  was  arranging  the  supper  table 
with  unusual  care,  when  her  reflections 
were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the 
door.  She  opened  it,  and  Lieutenant 
Landers,  paler,  with  care-worn  lines 
about  his  eyes  and  a  sternness  she  had 
never  noticed  in  his  face  before,  entered 
the  room. 

"Lieutenant !"  exclaimed  Agnes  in 
surprise  as  she  greeted  the  unexpected 
guest.  "I've  been  longing  to  hear  how 
everything  is  going  up  at  the  barracks. 
Jack  will  soon  be  home,  so  I'll  just  put 
another  plate  on  the  table  and  you  shall 
stay  for  supper  with  us.  It  seems  an 
age  since  I  left  the  Army."'  Then, 
suddenly  noting  his  changed  appear- 
ance, she  added,  "But  you  don't  look 
well,  Lieutenant.     Have  you  been  ill  ?" 

"My  work  has  fallen  a  little  harder 
since  you  left,"  he  replied.  "It  was 
only  today  that  I  was  able  to  get  away 
from   the    Cove    long    enough   to    run 


down  to  look  after  some  of  our  back- 
sliders here  in  the  village,  and  I 
couldn't  think  of  going  back  without 
bringing  you  all  the  messages  I  was 
entrusted  with  when  I  left  the  bar- 
racks this  morning.  We  miss  you  ver\ 
much  up  there,  little  Captain,"  he  con- 
cluded, sadly. 

A  far-off  look  came  into  the  brown 
eyes,  and  her  hands  clasped  and  un- 
clasped, nervously. 

"I  miss  the  work,  too,"  she  sighed. 

The  young  officer  looked  at  her  in- 
tently. He  had  loved  her  so  dearly. 
He  could  endure  his  sorrow  in  silence 
if  only  she  were  happy.  Seizing  the 
little  hands  in  his,  he  looked  steadily 
into  the  deep,  brown  eyes,  as  if  to  read 
her  very  soul. 

"Little  Captain,  forgive  me,  but  I 
must  know,"  he  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
"Tell  me,  is  Jack  keeping  steady?  Is 
he  good  to  you — does  he  make  you 
happy  ?" 

Then  the  eyes  he  loved  looked  up 
into  his  with  perfect  trust,  the  sweet 


rWHAT'S  GOING  ON  HERE,  ANYWAY?"    HE  SHOUTED. 


34 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE. 


lips  smiled  as  they  murmured  her 
reply. 

"Oh,  so  good — so  happy " 

Then  the  door  opened  suddenly. 

With  a  low  cry  Agnes  turned  toward 
the  door  and  there  stood  her  husband. 
Jack  had  been  alarmed  and  disap- 
pointed at  his  wife's  failure  to  meet 
him.  Now  he  was  excited  and  angered 
at  sight  of  the  clasped  hands  and  the 
words  of  happiness  he  had  just  heard. 
Agnes  approached  him  appealingly, 
but  all  the  old  jealousy  surged  within 
him  and  he  took  several  rapid  strides 
into  the  room. 

"What's  going  on  here,  anyway?" 
he  shouted,  staring  from  one  to  the 
other.  Before  either  could  reply  he 
had  turned  toward  his  wife: 

"So  this  is  why  you  wasn't  down  to 
the  shore  to-night,"  he  said  bitterly, 
"and  me  nearly  crazy  wondering  what 
had  happened  to  you !" 

"Jack,  dear,  let  me  explain,"  begged 
Agnes,  fearfully. 

"Explain  nothing !"  shouted  her 
husband,  now  making  no  effort  to  con- 
trol his  rage.  "I  seen  enough  as  I 
came  in.     I  know  how  the  land  lavs." 

"Oh,  Jack,  you  must  listen,"  sobbed 
the  girl.  "You  know  Lieutenant  Lan- 
ders— we  used  to  work  together  in  the 
Army- " 

"Know  him?"  cried  Jack;  "yes  I 
know  him  and  now  I  know  you,  too. 
A  pretty  pair  of  Salvationists  you 
are !" 

"Stop,  Jack,  dear,  stop — remember 
your " 

The  little  hands  were  stretched  in 
mute  appeal,  but  Jack's  rage  was  too 
great  for  him  to  understand. 

"Yes,     I'll     stop!"    he     thundered. 

"I've    had     enough    of    this     d d 

hypocrisy.  You  can  go  back  to  the 
Army — to  your  fine  Lieutenant  and 
I — I  don't  count.  I'm  nothing  to  no- 
body. I'll  go  to  the  devil  where  I  was 
bound  for  before  I   ever  saw  you." 

The  door  slammed  behind  him  and 
Agnes  fell,  a  little,  crumpled  heap, 
into  the  large  arm-chair.  As  Landers 
stepped  forward  she  raised  her  hand  to 
ward  off  any  hard  words  he  might 
speak  of  her  husband. 


"Don't,"  she  murmured,  "don't  say 
anything  against  him.  He  has  been 
so  steady.  He  wai  never  like  this  be- 
fore. He  has  been  trying — to  conquer 
his  temper — and  he — was  always — so 
good  to  me,"  she  moaned,  between  her 
sobs.  "I  guess — he  must  have  been 
frightened — when  I — didn't  come 
clown — to  the  beach."  The  slight  form 
shook  convulsively  and  Lieutenant 
Landers  never  came  so  near  hating  a 
man  in  his  life  as  he  did  at  that  mo- 
ment, when  he  thought  of  the  rough 
sailor,  who  was  so  recklessly  making  a 
shipwreck  of  life  for  them  all. 

The  Lieutenant  left  the  little  house 
with  bowed  head  and  heavy  heart.  All 
night  long  the  supper  table  remained 
untouched,  and  the  little  wife  waited 
and  watched  for  the  return  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"I'll  wait  for  him,"  she  said. 

Twice  she  slipped  out  to  the  beach 
and  searched  up  and  down  the  sands. 
Once  she  had  tried  to  peer  in  at  the 
window  of  the  nearest  saloon,  thinking 
he  might  be  there,  yet  half  afraid  lest 
she  should  see  him.  Each  time  she 
had  hurried  back  home  hoping  to  find 
him  there,  but  all  in  vain.  The  hours 
passed  slowly  and  with  the  morning 
came  Mrs.  Brown,  a  neighbor,  bring- 
ing a  note  from  Jack.  He  had  given 
it  to  her  husband,  she  said,  the  night 
before,  down  in  the  village. 

It  was  only  a  mere  scrap  of  paper 
with  a  few  words  scrawled  upon  it,  but 
Agnes  read  them  eagerly.  She 
clutched  the  paper  tightly  in  her  hand 
that  no  other  eyes  than  hers  should  see 


:: 

i                   i 

tt-»— jfe  <rt     "j*   -       '"'  i'  i 

H&  '  • 

' 

*-»! 

#1P9 

* 

^_„ 

/   .    -           r- 

iit 

llL  GO  TO  THE  DEVIL  ! 


I" 


SAILOR  JACK'S  REFORMATION. 


35 


the  proof  of  his  wrong-doing;  then, 
with  a  low  cry,  she  sank  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  for  the  timely  assist- 
ance of  the  friendly  neighbor. 

"He's  gone/'  she  moaned.  "Gone — 
and  he  didn't  understand.  It  was  all 
a — mistake — "  The  tired  form  re- 
laxed, the  eyelids  fluttered,  and  the  lit- 
tle Captain  fainted  for  the  first  time, 
at  the  realization  that  she  was  now  a 
deserted  wife. 


"I'll  wait  for  him,"  Agnes  said  from 
day  to  day. 

"Only  waiting  till  the  shadows  are  a 
little  longer  grown."  What  a  world 
of  pathos  there  was  in  the  beautiful 
words  of  the  hymn,  as  Agnes,  sitting 
by  the  window  in  the  little  cottage  one 
day,  repeated  them  to  herself.  She 
could  not  sing  them  now,  for  the  spirit 
of  song  had  fled  when  happiness  went 
out  of  her  life.  Now  she  could  only 
gaze  sadly  over  the  sea,  thinking  al- 
ways of  a  storm-tossed  mariner  sailing, 
she  knew  not  where,  without  a  pilot 
Here,  by  the  window,  her  successor, 
Captain  Mary,  and  Lieutenant  Landers 
always  found  her  when  they  came  over 
from  the  near-by  town  and  brought 
well-laden  baskets  of  provisions.  It 
would  have  gone  hard  with  the  patient 
watcher  if  they  had  not  ministered  to 
her  comfort.  She  had  tried  to  procure 
sewing  from  the  village,  but  as  her 
health  failed  she  had  been  compelled 
to  give  up  the  work,  and  each  week 
the  pale  little  face  seemed  to  grow 
thinner,  and  the  dark  eyes  larger  and 
more  pathetic. 

Lieutenant  Landers  had  never  re- 
ferred either  by  look  or  word  to  the  day 
of  his  encounter  with  Jack.  Agnes 
did  not  see  him  often.  He  was  always 
so  busy  at  the  barracks.  It  was  Cap- 
tain Mary  who  came  most  frequentlv 
to  cheer  the  invalid,  and  to  help  fash- 
ion the  dainty  bits  of  sewing  with 
which  Agnes  found  her  only  solace. 

"I'll  wait  for  him,"  Agnes  still  kept 
saying,  altho  she  was  not  without 
admirers. 

The  southern  cross  shone  out  with 
unusual  brilliancy  in  the  clear,  tropi- 


ca* sky.  The  great  ocean  lay  like  a  sea 
of  glass,  while  the  moon-beams  flooded 
with  an  exquisite  radiance  the  decks  of 
the  ship  on  which  Jack  Martin  was 
working  his  way  back  to  the  States. 
It  was  a  trip  he  had  never  taken  be- 
fore. The  calm  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  the  scene  appealed  to  him.  He  re- 
membered that  calm  night  in  June, 
when  he  had  gazed  hopelessly  into  the 
brown  eyes  of  the  sweet-faced  Salvation 
Army  lassie,  who  had  softly  whispered, 
"Come." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  on  a  pile  of 
rope  and  looked  out  over  the  sea.  A 
flying  fish  sprang  high  out  of  the 
water.  How  bright  and  shining  it 
looked  in  the  moonlight  and  how  peace- 
ful everything  was  !  If  only  Agnes  were 
beside  him.  She  loved  the  stillness 
and  solitude.  Many  the  time  he  had 
repented  his  folly.  He  was  thinking 
of  her  now.  It  was  almost  too  intense 
for  Jack.  It  made  him  nervous  and 
ill  at  ease.  He  wonderel  what  she 
was  doing  at  that  moment.  When 
would  he  see  her?  He  tried  to  reckon 
the  time,  but  finally  gave  it  up  as  too 
great  a  problem  in  mathematics. 

"A  man  could  do  right,"  he  mut- 
tered, "if  he  wras  always  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  ocean.  That  cross  in 
the  sky  makes  me  feel  creepy.  It  looks 
like  the  gate  of  heaven  and  I — what 
am  I  that  I  dare  look  upon  it?"  He 
hid  his  face  against  his  arm  and  shud- 
dered. 

Was  it  the  effect  of  the  moonlight, 


ur*\jfr 

j 

WYm- 

g§j 

HE  SHIPPED  FOR  A  LONG  VOYAGE. 


36 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  heavens  or 
the  sparkling  radiance  of  the  leaping 
fish,  that  made  that  glorious  tropical 
night  affect  him  so?  As  Jack  looked, 
the  moonbeams  at  the  side 
of  the  ship  seemed 
to  concentrate ; 
a  shadowy  va- 
por arose, 
wavered, 
;lowly 
took  m 


and   paused   on   its   way   to    speak   to 
him? 

"'Agnes — Agnes !"  he   cried,  stretch- 
ing forth  his  arms  imploringly  toward 
the  lovely  vision  before  him. 
And,   in   the   great 
stillness   of  the 
night     as 
the     vision 
gradually 
faded 
from 


I  LL      WAIT     FOR 
SAID     FROM     DAY 
SAW    AND   HEARD 


form, 
and     grad- 
ually   became 
clearer.      Awed, 
half     -     stupefied 
with  fear,  the  dazed 
sailor   watched,    as 
the  vision  came 
nearer  and  nearer. 
Suddenly,    with    a 

a  low  cry,  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  for 
there  before  him  stood  Agnes !  Yes, 
there  was  the  spirituelle  little  creature 
who  had  promised  to  be  a  guide  and  a 
pilot  to  him. 

"It  does  not  need  strength  to  influ- 
ence those  who  are  guided  by  the  spirit 
of  love."  she  had  said,  and  he  remem- 
bered it.  But  of  late  he  had  not  been 
guided  by  any  such  spirit.  Why 
should  she  come  to  him?  Could  it  be 
that  she  was  dead  ?  He  had  heard  her 
say  that  as  physical  strength  decreased 
in  death  the"  spiritual  power  grew 
stronger.    Had  her  soul  taken  its  flight 


v  1  e  w  . 

there  was 

the  sound  of 

a  gentle  voice : 

"Come  \» 

him/'    agnes  Would  that  train 

to  day.  jack  never  get  to  May- 
in  his  dreams.  port  ?  Jack  Martin, 
restless  and  im- 
patient, bothered  the  conductor  for  the 
ninth  time.  What  were  they  waiting 
for  now?  he  would  like  to  know.  A 
man  could  walk  the  distance  in  less 
time  than  it  took  that  old  train.  Jack 
was  too  used  to  a  ship  to  ever  feel  at 
home  in  a  train,  but  at  last  the  village 
appeared  to  view.  Almost  before  the 
engine  had  drawn  up  at  the  station 
Jack  was  on  the  platform,  fairlv  run- 
ning in  his  eagerness  to  reach  the  cot- 
tage, yet  scarce  daring  to  hope  that 
Agnes  was  still  there. 

Two  weather-beaten  fishermen  passed 
him,    but    they    were    not    cordial    in 


SAILOR  JACK'S  REFORMATION. 


39 


their  greeting  and  one  growled  out 
some  words  to  the  effect  that  it  was  a 
pretty  time  for  him  to  be  getting 
around  now,  when  everything  was  over. 

It  was  true,  then,  he  thought,  that 
Agnes  was  dead.  And  his  brutality 
had  killed  her !  He  was  a  beast — a 
veritable  beast,  he  said  to  himself 
again  and  again.  He  had  wrecked  he: 
life  and  now  she  was  gone  from  him, 
forever.  He  was  excited,  and  as  he 
neared  the  house  he  broke  into  a  run, 
for  it  was  evident  that  it  was  still 
occupied.  Arriving  at  the  house 
breathless,  he  paused  at  the  window. 
He  peered  in. 

"Agnes !"  he  cried,  and  then  he  fell 
back  as  one  stunned. 

What  he  saw  within  unnerved  him 
more  than  had  the  vision  on  the  ship 
out  under  the  southern  cross.  Was  it 
for  this  that  he  had  returned?  To 
find  his  wife  as  he  had  left  her,  not 
alone,  but  with  another  in  his  place? 
He  had  hoped  to  hear  a  satisfactory 
explanation  of  the  other  occasion,  for 
never  once  since  the  night  of  the  vision 
had  he  ever  thought  Agnes  guilty  of 
wrong.  But  now,  as  she  sat,  he  could 
see  her  clear  profile  and  smiling  eyes 
looking  clown  at  the  man  kneeling  at 
her  feet.  He  felt  like  a  wild  beast 
brought  to  bay. 

"He  shall  not  have  her — she  is  mine 
— mine !"  he  cried,  running  to  the  door 
of  the  cottage.  He  flung  it  open  and' 
rushed  in. 

"You  scoundrel !"  he  cried,  to  the 
man  who,  springing  quickly  to  his  feet, 
stood  facing  him. 

Agnes  was  not  looking  at  Lieutenant 
Landers  at  all,  but  at  a  morsel  of  hu- 
manity wrapped  in  blankets  lying  in 
her  lap.  A  basket  of  provisions  from 
the  barracks  stood  by,  heaped  with 
groceries.  Captain  Mary  was  coming 
in  from  the  kitchen  with  a  bowl  of 
steaming  broth.  Lieutenant  Landers, 
kneeling  before  the  babe  had  just  been 


"YOU  SCOUNDREL  !"    HE  CRIED, 
TO   THE  MAN   FACING   HIM. 

remarking  how  much  the  boy  looked 
like  Jack. 

At  the  sudden  intrusion  and  the 
sound  of  a  familiar  voice,  Agnes,  with 
a  glad  cry,  half  arose  to  her  feet,  hold- 
ing the  little  one  towards  her  husband. 

Poor  Jack  stood  for  a  moment  like 
a  statue.  Then  he  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  at  last  caught  sight  of 
the  baby. 

"Agnes!  Is  it  mine,  Agnes?  Is  it 
mine?"  he  cried. 

"He's  ours,  Jack,  ours — our  little 
son  !" 

The  baby  was  in  his  arms  now,  and 
as  he  clasped  the  little  bundle  to  his 
heart  those  who  watched  saw  his  face 
illumined  with  a  new  light.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  awakening  of  his  soul. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Agnes?" 
he  asked  in  a  husky  voice  as  he  knelt 
before  her.  "I  didn't  know — I  didn't 
understand,"  he  pleaded,  brokenly.  "I 
have  been  a  brute — nothing  but  a 
beast "   , 

"In  the  picture  I  told  you  of,"  inter- 
rupted Agnes,  "even  the  beasts  yield 
to  the  influence  of  a  little  child." 

"Hallelujah!"  exclaimed  Captain 
Mary. 

"Amen,"  echoed  Lieutenant  Landers. 

Sailor  Jack's  reformation  had  been 
accomplished. 


Jj' — 


A  GROUP  OF  NOTABLE  PICTURE  PLAYERS. 


THE    DOCTOR 


By  Lulietfe  Bryant 


«|T'S    five    o'clock/'    said    the    girl, 

I  disappointedly,  "and  he  said  four. 
Do  you  suppose  Doctor  Gray  ever 
gets  anywhere  on  time?" 

The  question,  being  addressed  to  a 
white  Persian  kitten,  dozing  on  a  rug 
before  the  fire,  received  no  reply  except 
a  sleepy  nod.  The  questioner  rose  and 
moved  restlessly  about,  re-arranging 
the  dainty  china,  which  stood  ready  for 
tea,  now  peeping  into  the  brass  kettle, 
bubbling  over  an  alcohol  flame,  now 
straightening  a  book  or  a  vase  here 
and  there,  until  she  paused  before  a 
window  looking  upon  the  street. 

Outside  a  March  wind  was  howling. 
At  intervals  a  flurry  of  snowflakes 
danced  thru  the  air,  as  if  to  remind 
the  unwary  that  spring  had  not  come 
to  stay,  in  spite  of  the  calendar.  The 
passerby  hurried  along  as  if  anxious 
to  seek  shelter,  men  turning  their  col- 
lars high,  women  drawing  their  furs 
more  closely,  children  running,  red- 
cheeked  and  breathless,  in  the  sharp 
wind. 

An  electric  runabout  came  suddenly 
into  view,  and  the  girl's  face  bright- 
ened. "He's  coming,  kitten,"  she  ex- 
claimed, running  back  to  the  fire  and 
catching  up  the  white  ball  of  fur. 
"He's  dreadfully  late,  and  we're  going 
to  scold  him,  but  he's  here." 

So  Doctor  Gray  found  her,  a  mo- 
ment later,  standing  in  the  warm  fire- 
light, slim  and  graceful,  in  her  trail- 
ing red  gown,  the  kitten  nestled  close 
against  her  neck,  contrasting  sharply 
with  the  braids  of  dark  hair.  He 
stood,  for  a  moment,  studying  the  pic- 
ture. The  girl's  beauty  was  fresh, 
vivacious.  Her  constantly  changing 
expression,  her  unaffected,  rather  im-     way. 

41 


perious  manner,  betokened  a  lack  of 
the  formal  discipline  which  leads  to 
self-control.  But  there  was  strength, 
as  well  as  sweetness,  in  the  young  face ; 
truth  looked  fearlessly  out  from  the 
dark  eyes,  which  fell  before  the  doc- 
tor's earnest  gaze. 

"Your  friends  need  hardly  wait 
until  you  die,"  she  remarked,  pointed- 
ly, "before  referring  to  you  as  'the  late 
Doctor  Gray.' " 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  returned,  "but  what 
can  a  poor  doctor  man  do,  when  these 
sudden  changes  of  March  send  half  his 
patients  into  grippe  or  pneumonia?" 

"Don't  talk  about  sickness,"  she 
said,  half  impatiently,  "I  hate  to  think 
of  it.  But  it  is  lovely  to  be  able  to 
make  people  well  and  happy  again," 
she  added,  hastily,  noticing  a  troubled 
look  creeping  over  his  face. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "I  had 
hoped  for  a  long  talk  with  you  this 
afternoon.  Now  I  am  late  and  must 
try  to  say  it  all  in  a  few  words.  You 
must  know  that  I  love  you.  Can  you 
give  yourself  to  me,  dear?  I  am  older 
than  you,  my  profession  is  exacting,  I 
fear  that  I  shall  always  keep  you  wait- 
ing as  I  have  tonight.  Do  you  think 
you  could  be  happy?" 

Alice  looked  at  her  lover  sweetly, 
earnestly,  over  the  kitten's  fluffy  hair. 
Suddenly,  with  one  of  her  swift  tran- 
sitions, her  eyes  lit  with  laughter. 

"I've  done  nothing  else  but  wait  for 
you  for  the  last  year,"  she  murmured, 
shyly. 

The  kitten  gave  an  indignant  yowl, 
and  dropped  to  the  floor.  It  was  well 
that   it   did.     The   kitten  was   in  the 


42 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


Mi 

■  '  I      1 - 

1                               1^ 

!    IBcSS 

.... 

(       -           '         « 

<>                   js 

j*3  »         " 

I  VE    DONE    NOTHING    ELSE    BUT    WAIT    FOR    YOU  FOR  THE   LAST  YEAR,      SHE  SAID. 


Mrs.  Deane  came  fussily  into  the 
parlor,  a  stout  little  lady  in  lavender 
silk,  with  a  great  many  dangling  orna- 
ments. Mrs.  Deane's  face  was  round, 
her  expression  childlike.  She  had  the 
manner  of  one  whose  affairs  had  al- 
ways been  kindly,  but  firmly,  arranged 
for  her. 

Stopping  short  at  sight  of  the  un- 
touched tea  things,  she  exclaimed, 
"Hasn't  the  doctor  been  here?" 

"Yes,  mother,  and  gone  again," 
answered  the  girl.  "He  was  late  and 
had  to  hurry." 

Something  in  the  girl's  tone  made 
the  mother  look  questioningly  at  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Alice,  softly,  "I  am  go- 
ihg  to  marry  him,  mother.  He  is 
coming  tonight  to  ask  your  consent." 

Mrs.  Deane  promptly  kist  her 
daughter  and  dissolved  into  tears. 
Alice  waited  composedly  until  her 
mother  spoke,  plaintively. 

"As  for  asking  me,  of  course  it  is 
only  a  matter  of  form.  You  always 
would  have  your  own  way,  ever  since 
your  dear  father  died  when  you  were 


only  five  years  old.  I  dare  say  I've 
spoiled  you,  but  what  could  I  do? 
You  were  just  like  him,  and  I  never 
could  manage  him  like  some  wives  do 
their  husbands,  tho  he  was  always  good 
to  me." 

"You  have  been  a  good  mother," 
said  Alice,  speaking  as  one  does  to  a 
child,  "but  don't  cry.  I'm  not  going 
to  die,  you  know,  or  even  leave  the 
city." 

"That's  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Deane, 
wiping  her  eyes,  "and  I  love  Doctor 
Gray  like  a  son,  already.  Only  I  can't 
help  wishing  he  had  some  other  pro- 
fession. You  never  can  be  sure  of  his 
keeping  an  engagement.  Why,  I 
heard  of  a  doctor  once,  who  got  so  in- 
terested in  an  operation  that  he  forgot 
to  go  to  his  own  wedding." 

"Speaking  of  weddings,"  laughed 
Alice,  "he  wants  ours  to  be  in  June." 

"Only  three  months !"  exclaimed  the 
mother.  "Then  it  must  be  announced 
at  once.  Will  you  have  an  engage- 
ment dinner  next  week?" 

Mrs.    Deane   loved   all    social   func- 


THE  DOCTOR. 


43 


tions.  Her  tears  dried  in  the  discus- 
sion of  decorations,  dresses  and  details 
of  the  dinner. 

Left  alone,  Alice  sat  for  awhile, 
gazing  into  the  fire. 

"I  wonder,"  she  remarked,  presently, 
to  the  Persian  kitten,  "if  1  shall  be  a 
good  wife?  I  wish  my  father  had 
lived,  kitten.  I  needed  discipline — 
and  I  didn't  get  it.'" 

The  kitten,  Alice's  chosen  confidante 
and  mentor,  blinked  wisely. 

Mrs.  Deane's  pretty  home  was  rosy 
with  lights.  In  the  dining-room 
Alice  lingered  over  the  beautifully 
decorated  table,  touching  the  pink 
petals  of  the  roses  delicately.  In  her 
.shimmering  gown  of  softest  pink,  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  excitement,  she 
looked  the  embodiment  of  youth  and 
happiness. 

It  was  a  family  party.  Cousins, 
aunts  and  uncles  assembled  with  the 
gaiety  and  familiar  chaffing  of  thoroly 
congenial  relatives.  Alice,  the  mer- 
riest of  the  party,  took  a  seat  near  a 
window,  glancing  frequently  down  the 
street. 


"Cheer  up,  Alice/'  cried  Bob,  the 
youngest  cousin;  "the  dinner  hour  ap- 
proaches.    He  will  soon  be  here." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  terrible  if  some- 
thing kept  him  away  ?"  suggested  Mrs. 
Deane.  "That's  the  dreadful  thing 
about  doctors,  they  are  never  to  be  de- 
pended upon." 

"Doctor  Gray  will  be  here,"  said 
Alice,  lifting  her  head  proudly,  "noth- 
ing could  keep  him  away  tonight." 

"If  anything  should,  I  pity  him," 
said  Bob,  under  his  breath ;  ''when  Alice 
looks  like  that,  it's  all  up  with  the  fel- 
low that  crosses  her." 

Meanwhile  Doctor  Gray  was  dress- 
ing for  dinner.  He  had  finished  his 
calls  early  and  now,  in  the  dressing 
room  off  his  office,  was  slowly  drawing 
on  his  gloves. 

"For  once  I'll  be  on  time,"  he 
thought,  glancing  at  his  watch;  "I'm 
lucky." 

In  the  office  voices  arose.  The  doc- 
tor heard  a  man's  tones,  loud,  insistent, 
arguing  with  his  servant. 

"Let  me  see  him  a  minute,  only  one 
minute." 

"I'll  have  to  get  out  the  side  door," 


DOCTOR  WILL  BE  HERE;    NOTHING  COULD   KEEP   HIM   AWAY  TONIGHT,"   SAID 

ALICE. 


44 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


thought  the  doctor,  "and  I'd  better  do 
it  quick.  But  I  hate  to  leave  a  man 
begging  for  me  like  that."  He  paused 
a  moment,  regretfully,  muttering,  "No, 
Alice  has  some  rights.  Tonight  is 
hers." 

Picking  up  his  hat  and  coat,  he 
turned  to  a  side  door  which  opened 
upon  the  street.  His  hand  was  upon 
the  knob  when  a  man  burst  thru  the 
office  door. 

"Wait  a  minute,  sir,  wait  just  one 
minute." 

"What  is 
it?"  asked  the 
doctor,  turn- 
ing sharply 
upon  the  in- 
truder. 

The  man 
was  poorly 
clothed ;  his 
hands  were 
the  roughened 
hands  of  toil; 
his  face  thin 
and  sharp ;  his 
eyes  full  of 
desperate 
anxiety,  met 
the  doctor's 
with  eager 
appeal. 

"I  shoved  your  servant  aside,  sir, 
and  forced  my  way  in.  It's  a  poor  in- 
troduction,   but    I    pray   you   to    help 

me "    A  sudden  break  in  the  voice 

appealed  to  Doctor  Gray  more  strong- 
ly than  volumes  of  eloquence. 

"What  is  it,  my  man,  perhaps  I  can 
send  some  one  to  help  you." 

"There's  no  one  but  you  can  do  it, 
they  say,"  said  the  man,  his  face  grow- 
ing whiter.  "It's  my  child,  my  baby 
girl.  She's  been  sick  for  a  week,  now 
she's  dying." 

"Have  you  had  no  doctor?" 

"Yes.  He  says  he  can't  do  anything 
more.  He  came  tonight  and  went 
away  again.  He  said  there  was  no  use 
of  his  staying.  I  asked  him  if  there 
was  anyone  who  could  save  her.  He 
said,  'Doctor  Gray,  the  great  specialist, 
could,  if  you  have  a  fortune  to  pay 
him.'  I  haven't  any  fortune,  I've  only 
my  day's  wages,  but  won't  you  come?" 


As  the  doctor  hesitated,  trying  to 
frame  a  refusal  that  would  not  sound 
heartless,  the  man  continued,  timidly, 
"I  could  pav  you  a  little  every  week, 
sir." 

"It  isn't  the  money,  man,"  retorted 
the  doctor,  almost  harshly,  "but  the 
girl  I  am  to  marry  is  waiting  for  me. 
The  dinner  is  ready,  the  guests  are 
there,  our  engagement  is  to  be  an- 
nounced. Can  I  disappoint  my  sweet- 
heart and  humiliate  her  before  her 
guests  ?" 

The  desper- 
ation in  the 
man's  eyes 
deepened.  He 
drew  close  to 
the  doctor, 
placing  a 
rough  hand 
on  his  sleeve. 
"Doctor,  I 
married  m  y 
sweetheart, 
five  years  ago. 
I  love  her.  We 
have  worked 
together,  plan- 
ning for  the 
babe.  We  have 
been  poor,  we 
have  had  hun- 
ger, and  want,  and  sickness.  My 
sweetheart's  courage  never  once  failed. 
Now  she  is  kneeling  by  our  only  child 
— my  babe,  with  her  mother's  blue  eyes 
— praying  for  you  to  come.  I  can't 
go  back  without  you." 

"Perhaps,  later  in  the  evening,"  be- 
gan the  doctor,  torn  with  desire  to  aid 
the  suffering  father. 

"Listen,  would  your  lady  want  you 
to  refuse  me?  If  she  knew,  wouldn't 
she  tell  you  to  go?  Maybe  you  will 
have  a  little  child  some  day;  maybe 
you  will  be  in  sore  need  of  help ;  maybe 
the  good  Lord  will  remember  it  if  you 
help  me  now." 

Like  a  flash  the  doctor  saw  a  vision 
of  Alice,  his  proud  lovely  Alice,  bend- 
ing over  a  babe — their  babe !  His  de- 
cision was  made. 

"Call  my  runabout,"  he  said  to  his 
servant.  "I  will  drive  myself,  this  man 
will  ride  with  me.     I  want  you  to  go 


IT  S  MY  CHILD,  MY  BABY  GIRL,  AND  YOU  ARE 
THE  ONLY  ONE  WHO  CAN  SAVE  HER." 


THE   DOCTOR. 


45 


at  once  to  Number  sixty-eight,  Garfield 
Avenue.  Ask  for  Miss  Alice  Deane. 
Tell  her  that  I  have  been  called  on  a 
most  urgent  case,  and  I  will  see  her 
at  the  first  possible  moment." 

A  moment  later  the  runabout  whizzed 
away  into  the  darkness. 

As  time  slipped  by,  and  the  doctor 
failed  to  appear,  Alice  struggled  brave- 
ly to  keep  her  composure.  Suddenly 
the  bell  rang  sharply,  and  with  a  glad 
cry  she  ran,  herself,  to  answer  it.  In  a 
moment  she  reappeared  in  the  door- 
way, her  face  pale,  her  dark  eyes  flash- 
ing. 

"Doctor  Gray  has  been  called  away," 
she  said,  quietly;  "we  will  eat  our  din- 
ner." 

"I  never  wanted  iilice  to  marry  a 
doctor,"  cried  Mrs.  Deane's  plaintiff 
voice. 

Aunt  Patricia  rose  to  the  occasion. 
"It  is  not  his  fault.  Such  things  are 
unavoidable  in  his  profession,"  she 
said,  smoothly.  "As  Alice  says,  it  is 
best  to  eat  our  dinner." 

"Watch     that       deadly     calm     of 


Alice's,"  whispered  the  irrepressible 
Bob.    "Poor  old  doctor !" 

With  proud  dignity  Alice  led  the 
way  to  the  dining-room.  Once  there, 
sitting  opposite  the  empty  place,  her 
composure  vanished.  With  a  sob  she 
fled  from  the  room.  There  was  a  gen- 
eral movement  to  follow  her,  but  Aunt 
Patricia  quelled  it. 

"All  of  you  stay  right  here.  This  is 
very  hard  for  Alice,  and  1  know  her 
ways.     Let  her  alone  for  awhile." 

"Can't  I  go,  Aunt  Patricia  ?"  begged 
Bob.  "She  won't  mind  me;  you  know 
I'm  only  a  kid." 

"Yes,  and  Bob's  her  favorite,"  said 
his  father,  "let  him  go." 

So  Bob  found  Alice  sobbing  her 
heart  out  on  the  great  divan  in  the 
library.  And,  being  possessed  of  the 
fine  intuition  of  youth,  and  a  real 
fondness  for  Alice,  he  sat  quietly  be- 
side her  while  she  cried. 

At  last  she  half  lifted  her  head. 
"I  shall  never  marry  him,"  she  de- 
clared, "I  couldn't  bear  to  be  always 
second." 


ALICE   PRECEDED   HER   GUESTS    TO    THE   TABLE. 


■=* 


46 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


THE    EMPTY    CHAIR. 


Bob  said  nothing. 

"What  pleasure  could  I  ever  have 
in  life?"  she  asked. 

Bob  stroked  her  hair. 

"I've  been  patient.  I'm  not  unrea- 
sonable. I've  stood  disappointments 
time  after  time.  But  he  had  no  right 
to  take  tonight  away  from  me."  she 
sobbed. 

Bob  patted  her  head. 

"It's  because  he  wants  the  money/7 
she  asserted,  hotly.  "He  gets  fabulous 
prices  and  he  can't  resist  the  oppor- 
tunity. I'll  never  see  him  again.  I 
simply  won't  discuss  the  matter  with 
him." 

Bob  looked  very  serious.  He  was 
only  a  boy.  but  he  had  loved  Alice 
from  his  babyhood  and  understood  her 
better  than  his  elders  did.  He  be- 
lieved that  Alice  was  fully  capable  of 
keeping  her  word  and  refusing  to  see 
the  doctor.     He  thought  rapidly. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  went?''  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  I  asked  the  servant.  He  said 
it  was  number  four,  Brown  Street." 

"That's  the  poorest  section  of  this 
town,"  said  Bob. 

"Probably  some  rich  man  sent  him," 
she  flashed. 


Bob  rose.  "Put  on  your  cloak,"  he 
said,  decidedly.     "We  are  going  there." 

"What!",  gasped  Alice. 

"I  can  run  father's  car.  It's  out  in 
front.  They  won't  hear  us  go.  It's 
only  fair  to  the  doctor.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it's  a.  case  of  money;  neither 
Avoid d  you  if  you  were  not  so  upset. 
Come  on." 

Alice  obeyed.  Catching  up  a  cloak 
and  scarf,  she  went  with  Bob  to  the 
car.  Swiftly  they  ran  out  thru  nar- 
row, mean  streets,  which  the  girl  had 
never  seen  before.  At  last  they 
stopped  before  a  tall  tenement. 

"Sit  here  a  moment,"  said  Bob.  "I 
can't  leave  the  car  alone,  and  I  cin't 
lot  you  go  in  till  I  see  if  it's  all  right." 

He  was  back  in  a  moment.  "It's  on 
the  second  floor,"  he  said.  "The  door 
is  open.  Co  upstairs  quietly  and  stand 
back  of  the  door." 

Alice  went  softly  up  the  stairs  and 
stopped  as  Bob  had  directed.  She 
could  see  into  a  small  room,  meagerly 
furnished,  but  her  eyes  caught  no  de- 
tails,  for  in  the  center  of  the  room,  on 
a  rude  cot,  lay  a  golden-haired  child, 
and  at  the  foot  knelt  a  golden-haired 
woman,  motionless,  hands  clasped, 
gazing  with  strained  intensity  at  the 
child's  face. 


THE   DOCTOR. 


47 


Above  the  child  bent  Doctor  Gray — 
a  new  Doctor  Gray,  whom  the  girl 
hardly  recognized.  With  jaws  set,  lips 
compressed,  face  tense,  he  worked  with 
shining  instruments,  doing,  the  girl 
knew  not  what,  but  doing  it  coolly, 
quietly,  firmly,  giving  an  occasional 
low-toned  direction  to  the  white-faced, 
haggard  man  who  stood  by  his  side. 

It  seemed  hours  to  Alice  before  he 
laid  the  child  gently  back  on  the  pil- 
low, covered  her  deftly,  and  turned  to 
the  mother,  who  leaned  toward  him  in 
breathless  suspense. 

"You  must  keep  her  very  quiet/'  he 
said,  with  an  assuring  smile;  "I  will 
call  early  in  the  morning.  Give  her 
this  when  she  wakes." 

"When  she  wakes?"  echoed  the 
mother,  hope  and  doubt  struggling  in 
her  face.  "Will  she  surely  wake,  doc- 
tor, will  she  live?" 

"Surely,"  said  the  doctor.  "Follow 
my  directions  carefully,  and  don't 
worry.  She  will  be  playing  around 
the  room  before  you  know  it." 

The    father    and    mother    fell    into 


each  other's  arms,  sobbing,  looking  first 
at  each  other,  then  at  the  child,  as  if 
half  doubting  the  reality  of  their 
joy.  After  a  moment,  they  turned  to 
the  doctor. 

"We  can't  begin  to  express  it,  sir," 
began  the  man,  but  Doctor  Gray 
checked  him  with  a  gesture. 

"Don't  try  to  express  it,"  he  said. 
"I  quite  understand.  It  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  be  able  to  help  you." 

"Your  lady,  sir,"  said  the  man, 
hesitatingly,  "I  hope  she  won't  be 
angry.  It  was  a  lot  I  asked  of  you,  to 
disappoint  her  so.  We  should  be  sorry 
to  cause  you  trouble." 

"The  lady  will  not  be  angry,"  said 
the  doctor,  "when  she  understands." 

Then,  out  from  the  shadow  of  the 
door  stepped  Alice,  a  fairylike  figure 
in  her  shimmering  pink  gown,  the  rose 
in  her  hair,  the  white  cloak  slipping 
away  from  the  bare  shoulders.  Shin- 
ing thru  a  mist  of  tears,  like  two  stars, 
her  eyes  met  the  doctor's. 

"The  lady  understands,  now,"  she 
said. 


FOLLOW  MY  DIRECTIONS  CAREFULLY,  AND  DON't  WORRY,"  SAID  THE  DOCTOR. 


:* 


How  Mary  met  the  Punchers 


By  narie  Coolidge  Rask 


^W/ELL,   that  old   saddle's  busted 

W  again." 

William  DeLancey  Fordham, 
otherwise  known  as  "Bill/7  made  the 
remark  with  an  air  of  finality,  as  he 
flung  the  heavy  piece  of  ranch  equip- 
ment down  on  the  step  where  his  em- 
ployer sat  smoking  and  watching  the 
progress  of  an  approaching  vehicle  out 
on  the  plain. 

Edward  Lewis,  the  prosperous  ranch- 
er who,  years  ago  had  come  to 
Wyoming  for  his  health,  was  not  one  to 
remain  aloof  from  the  men  in  his 
employ.  He  knew  that  the  majority 
of  them  had  not  always  lived  on  the 
ranges.  Altho  outward  evidences  of 
association  with  the  refinements  and 
education  of  the  East  had  disappeared, 
he  knew  that  some  of  the  most  daring 
riders  and  wildest  yelling  cowboys 
that  ever  flung  a  lariat,  had  come  from 
families  of  culture  and  wealth.  He 
knew  it,  but  it  made  no  difference  to 
him,  for  he  had  a  sincere  affection  for 
them  all.  He  was  somewhat  silent 
himself,  usually  full  of  plans  for  the 
development  of  his  ranch,  but  there 
were  times  when  he  could  forget  his 
planning  and  talk  and  laugh  as  hearti- 
ly as  anyone.  He  glanced  at  the  saddle 
with  disapproval. 

"That  thing  was  a  cheat,"  he  ob- 
served, removing  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  flourishing  it,  the  better  to 
emphasize  his  remarks.  "Yes  sir,  a 
swindle — an  all-round  swindle  from 
the  very  first.  It's  been  nothing  but 
busted  and  mended  and  busted  and 
mended  ever  since  that  blame  fool 
brought  it  to  the  ranch.  Jake  Loomis 
don't  know  any  more  about  buying  sad- 
dles than  I  do  about  air  ships.  When 
he   got  back  here   from   Chicago   and 


brought  that  saddle  along,  I  knew  as 
soon  as  I  looked  at  it  just  what  kind 
of  a  rocking-chair  he'd  got." 

Bill  was  carefully  threading  his 
needle,  preparatory  to  mending  the 
much  maligned  saddle.  He  nodded, 
appreciatively. 

"What'd  he  want  to  buy  it  in  Chicago 
for?"  he  inquired.  "Wasn't  the  Green 
Eiver  Emporium  doing  business  ?" 

"That's  just  what  I  asked  Jake,"  re- 
plied Lewis,  relighting  his  pipe.  "I 
said,  'if  I'd  thought  any  of  you  boys 
was  going  down  to  Chicago  to  get 
roped  in  at  a  bargain  sale,  I'd  have 
gone  myself  or  telegraphed  the  police 
to  look  out  for  a  bunch  of  tenderfeet 
from  Wyoming.'  That  saddle  wasn't 
the  only  fool  thing  they  bought  on  that 
trip,  either.     They — " 

The  speaker  paused  abruptly,  rose 
and  started  down  the  steps  to  meet  the 
dusty  wagon  as  it  came  within  speak- 
ing distance. 

"Here  she  is,"  cried  a  welcoming 
voice  as  Mrs.  Lewis,  known  to  all  the 
boys  as  "Mother,"  appeared  in  the 
doorway  and,  with  arms  extended,  hur- 
ried forward  to  greet  the  pretty  young 
girl,  already  being  helped  to  the 
ground  by  the  ranchman. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Ned— Aunt  Katie— How 
glad  I  am  to  see  you !  Oh,  what  a 
ride  it  has  been!"  exclaimed  the  new 
arrival,  embracing  first  one  and  then 
another  of  her  relatives. 

"It  was  too  bad  I  couldn't  drive 
down  to  The  Forks  to  meet  you.  my- 
self," apologized  Lewis :  "but  it  takes 
so  much  time  to  go  down  and  back, 
that  we  usually  have  to  leave  here  lie- 
fore  daylight,  and  I  had  to  be  home  this 
morning  to  look  after  some  matters 
here  at  the  ranch." 


49 


50 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


V  I" 


OH,   WHAT   A  RIDE  IT  HAS  BEEX  !        EXCLAIMED  THE   NEW   ARRIVAL. 


"Come  right  into  the  house  and  get 
something  to  eat,"  urged  Mrs.  Lewis. 
"Yon  look  completely  worn  out." 

The  young  woman  did  not  look  in 
the  least  worn  out.  She  looked  par- 
ticularly charming,  and  none  the  worse 
for  her  long  trip  across  the  continent, 
and  the  dusty  drive  over  miles  of  al- 
kali and  sage  brush. 

The  saddle  repair-shop  had  suspend- 
ed industry  the  instant  the  guest  ap- 
peared to  view,  and  the  lone  workman 
stalked  after  his  employer  expecting 
to  add  his  welcome  after  the  first  burst 
of  exclamations  had  subsided.  Mother 
Lewis,  however,  was  too  excited  to  think 
of  ordinary  little  courtesies.  As  they 
started  toward  the  house  she  kept  en- 
folding the  girl  in  her  motherly  em- 
brace at  such  frequent  intervals  that 
Bill  still  remained  discreetly  in  the 
background. 

"Oh,  my  suit  case!  Where  is  it?  I 
should  die  if  anything  ever  happened 
to  that.  I've  got  something  in  it  for 
you,  Auntie."  The  3Toung  woman's  sud- 


den exclamation  caused  the  whole  par- 
ty to  pause  abruptly. 

"Here  it  is.  I've  got  it,"  answered 
her  uncle,  who  was  well  laden  with 
various  impedimenta. 

"Xo,  not  that  one.  There's  another." 
Mary  turned  hastily  in  the  direction  of 
the  retreating  wagon  only  to  encounter 
the  genial  smile  and  respectful  bow  of 
the  cowboy. 

Pretty  girls  were  not  frequent  visitors 
at  the  ranch,  especially  girls  from  the 
East.  Mother  Lewis  had  told  the  boys 
weeks  ago  that  her  niece  was  coining, 
and  they  had  all  been  looking  forward 
to  the  event  with  much  interest.  Bill 
had  been  watching  the  pretty  play  of 
dimples,  as  the  maiden  laughed  and 
chatted,  and  had  quite  decided  that  she 
was  irresistible.  Then  came  that  sud- 
den stampede  about  the  suit  case. 

"I  have  your  grip,  Miss." 

Bill  spoke  very  deferentially,  but  at 
his  words  all  the  pretty  smile  faded. 
The  girl  looked  him  over  as  one  ac- 
customed to  frown  upon  any  presump- 


HOW  MARY  MET  THE  PUNCHERS. 


tion  from  a  servant.  Evidently  she 
mistook  him  for  one. 

"Oh !    All  right." 

The  words  were  few  but  the  look 
and  the  tone  spoke  volumes.  Poor 
William  gazed  in  dismay  and  momen- 
tary discomfiture.  Then  he  sniffed, 
much  as  a  long-horn  raises  his  head 
and  sniffs  the  air  when  he  thinks  he 
scents  trouble.  Bill  scented  it,  and  he 
muttered  something  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  surrendered  the  luckless  piece  of 
baggage.  With  an  expression  that  was 
a  queer  mixture  of  resentment  and 
laughter,  he  picked  up  the  saddle  and 
started  in  the  direction  of  the  corral. 

"Wonder  who  the  deuce  she  thinks 
we  are,  out  here?"  he  grumbled  to 
himself  as  he  strode  along.  "She's  got 
nerve,  all  right.    I  bet  she  can  ride." 

In  years  gone  by,  Billy  Fordham  had 
been  considered  very  clever  in  the  col- 
lege dramatic  club.  He  hadn't  for- 
gotten the  art  of  getting  a  laugh  from 
an  audience,  and  his  pantomime  as  he 
approached  the  group  of  cowboys,  who 
were  engaged  in  conquering  the  antics 
of  a  "bucker,"  was  sufficiently  interest- 
ing immediately  to  cause  a  transfer  of 
all  attention  to  himself. 

"Get  off,  Charlie,"  advised  a  big, 
six-footer,  usually  referred  to  as 
"Lengthy,"  deftly  throwing  his  lasso 
around  the  broncho's  foot,  "Bill's  got 
something  to  say." 

"Has  she  come?"  anxiously  queried 
Charlie,  springing  from  his  perilous 
position  just  in  time  to  avoid  being 
thrown  by  the  plunging  animal.  "She" 
was  the  title  by  which  Mother  Lewis' 
niece  had  been  generally  designated 
ever  since  it  had  become  known  that 
such  a  young  person  was  on  her  way 
westward. 

"As.  I  was  sitting  on  the  step,  heigh- 
o,  heigh-o, — "  caroled  Bill  as  he  drew 
nearer  the  group.  "A  pretty  girl 
I  saw,  you  bet,  heigh-o,  heigh-o, 
heigh-o — " 

"Aw,  shut  up,"  shouted  Lengthy, 
preparing  to  swing  the  lasso  over  the 
vocalist.     "When'cl  she  get  here?" 

"What  does  she  look  like,"  grinned 
Charlie ;  "d've  think  I'll  stand  any 
show?" 


"Sure  thing;  you'll  make  a  hit  all 
right.  Wear  those  new  Cheyenne 
pumps  and  take  her  down  to  the  dance 
next  Saturday  night."  Bill  always  en- 
joyed joking  Charlie  about  his  fondness 
for  the  frivolities  of  fashion. 

"Well,  go  ahead, — what'd  she  say?" 
Lengthy  was  getting  impatient. 

"Say?"  echoed  Bill  drily,  "just  about 
what  Three  Moon's  squaw  said — " 

Laughter,  exclamations,  and  the 
prompt  use  of  the  lariat  stifled  the  rest 
of  the  sentence. 

"What's  the  joke?"  asked  Dicken- 
son, a  comparatively  new  hand  at  the 
ranch,  as  soon  as  he  could  make  him- 
self heard. 

Charlie  hastened  to  explain.  "Why 
Bill,  here,  went  down  to  The  Forks  last 
Christmas,  and  met  Three  Moon's 
squaw  just  as  she  was  getting  herself 
loaded  with  blankets  ready  to  ride  to 
Pocatello  on  top  of  a  coal  car.  Bill  al- 
ways likes  to  be  polite  to  ladies,  so  he 
takes  off  his  top-piece  like  a  tenderfoot 
and  says,  'Merry  Christmas,  Mrs.  Three 
Moon,'  just  like  that.  She  didn't  scalp 
him  but  she  looked  as  if  she  might. 
Then  she  grunts  'Ugh,  all  right,'  swings 
around  and  scrambles  up  over  that 
coal  as  if  she  couldn't  get  away  from 
the  sight  of  him  fast  enough." 

"Oh,  but  that's  not  what  the  girl 
did,  is  it  ?"  Dickenson  asked,  anxiously. 

"That's  just  what  she  did,"  replied 
William.  "She's  about  so  high," 
waving  his  hand  expressively,  "and 
when  she  wants  to  see  a  cow-punchei 
again  she'll  tell  us.  She  didn't  say  so 
but  she  looked  it.  I  tried  to  carry  one 
of  her  grips  for  her,  but  she  looked  at 
me  a  heap  sight  steadier  than  the  squaw 
did,  and  the  way  she  took  that  grip  and 
sailed  into  the  house  beat  the  old 
woman's  coal  deal  all  to  a  finish/' 

"Sh !  here  she  comes,  now."  The 
warning  was  from  Lengthy,  and  was 
none  too  soon.  Mary  and  the  Rancher 
were  close  by.  There  was  a  quick- 
brushing  of  hats,  and  arranging  of 
kerchiefs,  in  spite  of  the  discouraging 
account  that  had  just  been  given. 

Lewis,  full  of  plans  for  the  improve- 
ment of  his  property,  was  already  ex- 
plaining them  to  his  niece,  whose  ex- 


52 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


clamations  of  delight  and  approval 
pleased  and  encouraged  the  silent  man 
of  the  West  more  than  anything  that 
had  entered  into  the  dull  routine  of 
his  life  for  many  a  day. 

"These  are  my  cow-punchers,"  he 
remarked,  indicating  with  a  sweep  of 
his  hand,  the  group  of  bronzed  western- 
ers. "You've  heard  of  cow-punchers, 
haven't  you,  over  there  in  your  English 
school?"  Mary  had  been  educated  in 
one  of  London's  most  select  schools  for 
young  ladies,  and  it  was  fortunate  that 
Lewis  did  not  wait  to  hear  her  re- 
ply. Instead,  he  turned  to  take  another 
look  at  the  offending  saddle  which  Bill 
had  thrown  to  one  side. 

"Howdy 

"Glad  to  see  you." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss,"  mum- 
bled the  men  as  they  pulled  off  their 
sombreros ;  but  the  easy  grace  and  cor- 
diality with  which  such  greetings  were 
usually  extended  was  checked  and 
frozen  by  the  sudden  dignity  of  the 
young  woman.     It  was  plainly  evident 


that  she  had  no  idea  of  making  their 
acquaintance. 

"What'd  I  tell  you  fellows?"  ejacu- 
lated Bill,  as  Mary  and  her  uncle 
passed  on.     "Wasn't  I  right?" 

Reluctantly  the  boys  had  to  admit 
that  the  girl  was  a  disappointment. 
She  was  pretty  enough,  to  be  sure,  but 
that  only  made  the  matter  worse. 
There  was  that  dance  coming  off  in 
the  school-house,  and  they  had  told  all 
the  other  boys  for  miles  around  that 
they  were  going  to  have  a  new  girl 
there.  Charlie  almost  decided  not  to 
go  at  all,  in  spite  of  the  new  dancing 
pumps,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Lengthy  was  going  to  fiddle  while  the 
saloon  keeper  at  The  Forks  played  the 
Sunday  School  organ.  The  itinerant 
preacher  wouldn't  get  along  until  the 
Green  River  local  pulled  in  at  eight 
o'clock  Sunday  morning;  and,  as  Dick- 
enson expressed  it,  "they  could  keep  the 
ball  going  until  broad  day-light  and 
then  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  the  place 
slicked  up  before  the  meeting."     This 


IT  WAS  SIR  PERCY  GRANVILLE,  THE  ENGLISH  OWNER  OF  THE  NEIGHBORING  RANCH. 


HOW  MARY  MET  THE  PUNCHERS. 


53 


was  all  quite  plausible,  because  the 
floor  committee  for  the  dance  was  to 
comprise  the  choir,  and  the  organist 
would  merely  change  his  tunes. 

"It's  a  shame/'  groaned  Lengthy,  "a 
blasted  shame  !"  as  the  boys  turned  rue- 
fully toward  the  house. 

Even  Bill's  good  nature  was  affected 
by  the  downfall  of  their  hopes,  and  his 
manner  was  not  as  cheerful  as  usual 
when  he  took  the  water  bucket  from 
Mrs.  Lewis'  hands  and  started  to  fill  it 
at  the  well.  The  more  he  thought  of 
the  young  woman's  treatment,  the  more 
angry  he  grew.  Never  before  had  any- 
one intimated  that  he  was  not  worthy 
of  acquaintance. 

"A  man  can  be  a  gentleman,"  he 
soliloquized,  "even  if  he  does  wear 
rough  clothes  and  carries  a  gun.  What 
confounded  ideas  has  she  got  into  her 
head,  anyway?" 

The  bucket  of  water  was  brought  up 
with  such  energy  that  it  splashed  all 
over  the  ground,  and  almost  upon  the 
couple  who  had  just  come  up  from  be- 
hind. 

"Have  a  drink,  Mary?  You'll  find 
the  water  on  this  ranch  is  all  right,  in 
spite  of  the  alkali.  Wait  a  minute, 
Bill,"  said  Lewis  to  the  man  at  the 
well;  then,  turning  to  his  niece,  "This 
is  Mr.  Fordham,  Mary.  My  niece, 
William.  I  want  her  to  try  some  of 
this  water.  See  how  it  compares  with 
your  city  hydrant  water."  The  rancher 
was  in  high  spirits.  He  helped  him- 
self to  several  cupfulls  of  water. 

Very  formal  was  Mary's  recognition 
of  Mr.  Fordham,  but  this  time  he  was 
prepared,  and  the  coolness  of  his  greet- 
ing quite  equaled  Mary's  already  famed 
frigidity.  The  change  of  demeanor 
was  unexpected  to  the  young  woman. 
She  vouchsafed  a  quick  glance  of  sur- 
prise, just  as  a  gentleman  in  immacu- 
late costume  rode  up,  greeted  her  uncle 
cordially,  nodded  to  Bill,  and  then 
turned  to  be  presented  to  Mary. 

It  was  Sir  Percy  Granville,  the  Eng- 
lish owner  of  the  neighboring  ranch. 
She  had  heard  the  name  before.  Sir 
Percy  had  served  in  the  same  regiment 
with  Captain  Andrews,  whose  wooing 
she  had  scorned,  but  of  whom  she  had 


often  heard  him  speak  as  his  friend  far 
out  on  the  American  plains.  She  ex- 
tended her  hand  in  cordial  greeting  to 
the  blase  man  of  the  society  world,  and 
he  in  turn  smiled  down  upon  her  in  a 
manner  that  made  the  cowboy  long  to 
fling  him  into  the  well. 

"The  darned  dude!"  exclaimed  Bill 
under  his  breath  a  day  or  so  later  when 
he  chanced  to  hear  Sir  Percy  urging 
Mary  to  go  for  a  ride  with  him  that 
afternoon.  Bill  had  been  quite  right 
in  his  conjecture  that  the  English-bred 
American  girl  was  a  clever  horse- 
woman. She  had  longed  for  some  good 
cross-country  runs,  as  she  called  them, 
referring  to  the  long  dashes  over  the 
open  stretch  of  prairie  land.  The 
sneering  look  on  Bill's  face  was  still 
there  when  Mary,  turning  suddenly,  en- 
countered it.  Their  eyes  met,  and  in 
an  instant  each  understood  the  other. 

"You  shall  recognize  me,  yet,"  was 
the  ultimatum  expressed  in  the  firm 
lips  and  determined  eyes  of  the  man. 

"I  aspire  higher,"  was  the  apparent 
reply  flashed  back  by  the  girl. 

"One  little,  two  little,  three  little 
shirtsies,"  hummed  Charlie  as  he,  with 
Lengthy  and  Bill,  sauntered  into  the 
back  yard  where  the  week's  washing 
was  waving  gaily  in  the  breeze. 

"Are  our  togs  dry,  mother?"  he 
called,  as  he  spied  Mrs.  Lewis  busily 
taking  the  garments  down.  "Lengthy 
won't  go  to  the  dance  tomorrow  if  he 
can't  have  that  polky-dot  handkerchief 
to  rest  his  fiddle  on.  That  blue  shirt's 
mine.  'Twont  fit  Bill."  Mrs.  Lewis 
sometimes  made  mistakes  in  dispensing 
clothing  to  the  three  cavaliers. 

"Hey,  Lengthy — Bill — what  do  you 
think  of  this  now?"  exclaimed  Char- 
lie, who  was  examining  the  material  of 
a  neat,  red,  dress  skirt  hanging  on  the 
line.  "Now  that's  what  I  call  wool, 
real  wool.  Nothing  shoddy  about  that. 
Why  in  thunder  can't  we  get  shirts  as 
good  as — " 

"How  dare  you !" 

The  owner,  with  a  face  almost  as 
crimson  as  the  garment,  had  appeared, 
unnoticed  by  the  interested  wool  in- 
spectors. At  her  sharp  words  and 
hasty  confiscation  of  the  skirt,  there  was 


54 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


a  disappearance  of  cow-punchers  so 
speedy  that  it  savored  almost  of  an 
Indian  surprise.  As  Lengthy  said  af- 
terwards, he  "never  felt  so  dog-goned 
cheap  in  his  life"  as  he  did  at  that 
moment. 

The  discomfited  plainsmen  were  still 
suffering  from  the  effects  of  their  con- 
fusion when  they  saw  Mary,  wearing 
the  garment  of  excellent  wool,  ride  off 
over  the  range  accompanied  by  Sir 
Percy.  Half  an  hour  later,  as  they 
were  lounging  near  the  corral,  Dicken- 
son appeared  in  the  distance,  riding  like 
mad. 

"What's  he  trying  to  kill  that  pinto 
for,  riding  like  that  when  there's  no 
call  to  ?"  growled  Lengthy,  raising  him- 
self on  one  elbow  as  he  lay  on  the 
ground  ready  for  a  nap.  The  boys 
watched  the  rider  until  he  was  within 
hailing  distance,  when  they  knew  from 
his  shouts  that  he  had  some  exciting 
piece  of  news  for  them. 

"Get  to  horses,"  yelled  Dickenson. 
"Where's  Old  Ned?  This  pinto's  no 
good  on  a  run."  He  rushed  to  the  cor- 
ral as  he  spoke  and  made  the  exchange 
of  the  pinto  for  the  black  horse,  while 
the  others  were  getting  on  their  mounts. 

"Now  where  in  blazes  are  we  going  ?" 
demanded  his  friends  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  with  varying  expletives, 
just  as  they  were  about  to  start. 

"Injuns — dirty  ones.  English  Herl 
and  a  lady  fair,"  came  the  disjointed 
reply,  as  the  horses  made  a  dash  for- 
ward. "You  see,  it  was  this  way,"  con- 
tinued Dickenson,  when  the  ponies  had 
steadied  down  a  little.  "That  tender- 
foot that's  been  staying  over  at  the 
Granville  ranch,  saying  he  was  on 
leave  of  absence  from  his  regiment,  is 
mean  enough  to  steal  sheep." 

"What's  he  done  ?"  inquired  the  other 
riders. 

"He  hasn't  clone  anything  that  he 
planned  to,  and  he  won't  for  some 
time,"  replied  Dickenson,  dryly;  "but 
I've  done  something,  and  before  we 
get  thru  you  fellows  may  have  a  chance 
to  get  into  the  game,  too.  I  was  down 
the  trail  by  the  telegraph  car  where 
those  two  new  operators  are  staked,  and 
along    comes   this    Johnnie    Bull    and 


sent  a  message.  I  used  to  work  in  a 
Union  office  when  I  was  a  young  fel- 
low and  I  just  naturally  read  that 
telegram."  The  narrator  grew  more 
emphatic  as  his  story  began  to  take  ef- 
fect on  his  audience.  "That  infernal 
telegram  read  'Will  rescue  fair  Mary 
from  Indians  this  afternoon,  and  will 
take  the  trail  south.  Have  minister 
waiting  at  The  Forks.  She'll  have 
to  give  in  or  be  lost  on  the  prairie.' " 

Bill  was  reaching  for  his  pistol  as 
the  speaker  paused. 

"Put  up  your  gun,  Billy,"  admon- 
ished Charlie.  "The  Johnnie  ain't 
within  range  and  the  story  ain't  fin- 
ished." 

"Go  on  with  it,"  he  urged. 

"Why  didn't  you  pepper  him  ?"  asked 
Lengthy. 

"Well,  maybe  I  didn't!"  was  the 
grim  reply.  "By  the  time  I  got  thru 
with  him  he  was  getting  out  of  the 
country  as  fast  as  he  could.  Before  he 
went  he  sent  another  telegram,  to  Sir 
Percy,  saying  that  he  was  suddenly 
called  away  and  for  him  to  send  his 
outfit  after  him.  So  he's  gone  and 
now  it's  up  to  us  to  rescue  the  girl. 
Three  Moon  and  his  gang  have  been 
filled  up  on  bad  whiskey  and  that  yazoo 
has  paid  them  to  chase  Sir  Percy  and 
Miss  Mary  as  soon  as  they  come  in 
sight.  There'll  be  mischief  clone  if 
we  don't  get  the  joker  played  on  time." 

Over  a  distant  rise,  Three  Moon  and 
several  boon  companions  were  having  a 
pow-wow.  Three  Moon,  using  a  whis- 
key bottle  to  emphasize  his  remarks, 
urged  his  followers  to  rise  in  retaliation 
of  all  the  wrongs  they  had  suffered  at 
the  hands  of  a  wicked  government  that 
didn't  supply  enough  whiskey  and  gave 
the  noble  reel  men  poor  rifles  and  noth- 
ing in  the  animal  line  to  shoot.  With 
the  aid  of  another  bottle  he  invoked 
the  great  spirit  to  help  them  to  make 
war  upon  the  white  man,  and,  as  if  in 
answer  to  his  pleading,  there  appeared 
to  view,  far  in  the  distance,  two  riders 
so  engrossed  in  conversation  as  to  be  an 
easy  mark  for  any  marauding  party 
that  might  chance  to  pass  by. 

Three  Moon's  trusty  friend,  Eed 
Dog,  may  have  been  unsteady  on  his 


HOW  MARY  MET  THE  PUNCHERS. 


55 


MARY    AND    SIR    PERCY    DEFENDING    THEMSELVES. 


legs,  but  his  sight  was  fairly  true  and 
his  hand  did  not  falter  when  he  fired 
the  shot  which  whizzed  past  Mary's 
ear,  as  her  horse  plunged  forward  and 
the  mad  race  began.  Lucky  for  Mary 
that  she  knew  how  to  ride  across  coun- 
try, and  that  her  pony  was  clever  at 
avoiding  badger  holes.  Sir  Percy's 
horse  kept  in  the  lead,  however,  and 
both  horse  and  rider  soon  disappeared 
behind  a  small  rise  which  marked  the 
site  of  a  deserted  sheep  herders7  camp. 
By  the  time  Mary  had  reached  the  shel- 
ter, her  escort  had  already  found  some 
old  wool  sacks,  with  which  he  was  con- 
triving a  sort  of  barricade,  but  with 
a  nervousness  and  excitement  that  was 
far  from  reassuring  to  the  frightened 
girl. 

Suddenly,  the  gentleman  had  an  in- 
spiration. "A  dummy!"  he  panted. 
"We'll  put  it  on  one  of  the  ponies. 
The  redskins  will  think  it's  one  of  us." 

With  frantic  haste  he  seized  the 
fallen  sacks  and  commenced  tying  them 
together.     The  Indians  had  now  come 


quite  close,  and  were  posting  senti- 
nels. Mary  was  sobbing  disconsolately, 
but  she  meekly  surrendered  her  cap 
when  Sir  Percy  demanded  it  to  add  to 
the  dummy.  But  anything  more  she 
stubbornly  refused  to  contribute,  until 
a  whoop  and  a  rifle  shot  from  the 
Indians  unnerved  her;  then,  suppress- 
ing a  little  scream,  she  rushed  behind 
a  rock  and  presently  threw  her  skirt 
over  for  the  completion  of  the  dummy. 
A  moment  later  and  the  horse  galloped 
forth,  its  dumb  rider  looking  quite 
enough  like  Ranchman  Lewis'  niece  to 
deceive,  at  a  distance,  even  Aunt  Katie 
herself.  Away  went  the  Indians  in 
hot  pursuit  of  the  horse  and  its  queer 
rider,  just  as  Bill,  looking  thru  his 
field  glasses  off  to  the  southward,  de- 
scried the  chase. 

"There  she  goes,  boys :  gosh  dang 
those  red  devils — ride  like  h — 1,"  he 
shouted  as  the  four  punchers  dashed 
madly  to  the  rescue.  Long  before  the 
Indians  were  overtaken,  the  lariats  were 
whirling  in  ever  widening  circles  un- 


■~  < 


W 

r  /  ■ 

■Ml 

r  /  ^^,|^^mi 

"^^P"   Ml 

HOW  MARY  MET  THE  PUNCHERS. 


57 


til,  with  a  deafening  yell,  the  cowboys 
hurled  them  forward  over  the  heads  of 
the  drunken  red-skins,  just  as  they 
had  overtaken  their  supposed  victim 
and  angrily  torn  the  dummy  into 
shreds.  A  glance  into  the  muzzle  of 
Bill's  six  shooter,  and  Three  Moon 
quickly  informed  him  where  Mary  and 
Sir  Percy  were  supposed  to  be  in 
hiding. 

Poor  Mary!  She  isn't  defiant  now. 
She  is  crying  her  heart  out  as  she 
cowers  alone  by  the  deserted  camp, 
trembling  lest  at  any  moment  the  In- 
dians return  and  find  her  there  alone. 
For  her  escort  is  gone.  Going  to  get 
help,  he  had  told  her,  and  then  he  had 
hastily  sprung  upon  the  remaining 
pony  and  rode  off  down  the  trail,  leav- 
ing her  horseless,  and  defenseless  ex- 
cept for  a  revolver.  She  had  never 
used  a  revolver  in  her  life.  And,  what 
perhaps  was  most  serious  of  all,  at  least 
to  her  cultured  mind,  she  was  without 
her  skirt  and  cap. 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  him — I  despise 
him,  the  coward!"  cried  the  girl,  an- 
grily. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  hoof  beats. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  picture 
which  met  her  eyes  would  have  been 
humorous  had  the  previous  experiences 
been  less  serious.  There  they  all  were, 
Lengthy  and  Charlie  and  Dickenson 
and  Bill,  coming  swiftly  and  directly 
toward  her,  waving,  on  a  stick  as  a 
flag  of  truce — her  skirt ! 

"Halt  !"  Mary's  pistol  is  leveled 
straight  at  the  oncoming  punchers.  In 
obedience  to  the  sharp  command,  the 
sturdy  little  bronchos  rear  back  on 
their  haunches  as  their  riders  bring 
them  to  a  sudden  standstill.  Charlie 
was  heard  to  say  afterwards,  "She  got 
the  drop  on  us  first  and  we  couldn't 
do  anything  else.  A  girl  who  can 
handle  a  gun  like  that  is  just  going  to 
waste,  shut  up  in  a  boarding  school." 

"My  skirt — bring  me  my  skirt  or — 
I'll  shoot !"  demanded  Mary. 

She  did  not  remember  at  the  time 
that  the  pistol  was  not  loaded.  She 
only  knew  that  she  was- not  dressed  for 
company.  As  the  rescuing  party  con- 
ferred together,  and  Bill  seemed  to  be 


writing  something  on  the  side  of  a  rock, 
the  stentorian  voice  of  Dickenson  rang 
out. 

"Captain  Andrews,  of  Her  Majesty's 
Guards  wished  to  be  remembered.  He's 
just  skipped  the  country." 

Mary  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise  and 
dismay.  Captain  Andrews  !  He  whom 
she  had  refused  again  and  again  in 
England.  He  had  vowed  to  marry  her 
whether  she  would  or  no.  He  was  a 
friend  of  Sir  Percy's.  Could  it  be 
that  he  had  followed  her  to  America? 
The  thoughts  went  thru  her  mind  in 
an  instant.  Her  nerve  in  handling  the 
pistol  was  failing,  now,  very  rapidly, 
but  she  bravely  repressed  the  tears,  and 
when  a  fragment  of  paper  fell  at  her 
feet  she  picked  it  up  and  read : 

"The  punchers  wish  to  return  Miss 
Mary's  skirt,  but  would  first  like  to 
have  her  consent  to  make  their  ac- 
quaintance.— Punchers." 

The  faces  of  the  jovial  plainsmen  ap- 
peared good  and  wholesome  as  she 
peered  at  them  furtively  from  over  the 
embankment.  How  strong  and  brave 
they  seemed  !  They  would  never  run 
away  and  desert  a  woman.  Choking 
back  a  sob,  she  turned  the  paper  and 
hastily  scribbled : 

"Mary  will  be  glad  to  meet  the 
Punchers  who  have  rescued  her." 

An  encouraging  shout,  a  waving  of 
sombreros,  and  the  skirt  and  cap  are 
politely  passed  over  the  rock.  A  mo- 
ment later,  as  Mary  emerges  from  her 
retreat,  the  entire  party  dismounted, 
and  greeted  her  with  an  ovation. 

"Glad  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Miss  Mary,"  began  Charlie,  his  face 
wreathed  in  smiles.  "There's  going  to 
be  a  dance  down  at  the  school-house 
tomorrow  night — " 

He  is  checked  by  a  warning  dig  in 
the  ribs  from  Lengthy,  who  explains 
that  the  excitement  of  the  Indian  chase 
lias  been  a  little  too  much  for  his 
friend's  brain.  Charlie  was  rewarded, 
however,  by  one  of  Mary's  prettiest 
laughs,  and  the  assurance  that  she 
would  be  delighted  to  hear  all  about 
the  dance  as  they  rode  back  to  the 
ranch.  Dickenson  was  alreadv  getting 
her  pony  ready  for  her  and  the  others 


HOW  MARY  MET  THE  PUNCHERS. 


59 


were  turning  toward  their  horses.  Wil- 
liam DeLancey  Fordham,  otherwise 
known  as  Bill,  alone  remained  to  be 
met  on  terms  of  equality.  His  hat  was 
off  but  he  did  not  extend  his  hand. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  equal 
to  the  ride  back,  Miss  Mary?"  he  in- 
quired, courteously. 

"I  think  so." 

Mary  was  actually  blushing.  Again 
their  eyes  met.  The  defiance  was  all 
gone.     The  girl  smiled  shyly  up  into 


the  face  of  the  stalwart  man  of  the 
West  and  held  out  her  hand.  Fordham 
recognized  the  signs  of  surrender  and 
his  heart  thrilled  at  the  sudden  pros- 
pect of  a  great  happiness.  He  gave 
a  hearty  clasp  to  the  little  white  hand, 
and  as  he  did  so  his  strength  and  man- 
liness gave  to  Mary  a  great  sense  of 
protection. 

"It  must  be  lovely  to  always  live  on 
the  plains  and  to  be  unconventional," 
she  murmured  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

"It  certainly  will  be!"  quoth  Bill. 


SCENE  FROM    "THE     DEATH    OF    ADMIBAL     COLIC  NY 


CHAKEES  KENT  AS  THE  NAZAKENE. 


*= 


ThoY 


our 


ins 


Be  As   Scarlet 


(A  Tale  of  tke  First  Easter  Day) 


By  Montanye  Perry 


"I 


KNOW    not    what    to 
our   mistress.      She 
changed." 


is 


The  maid  who  spoke  was  leaning 
idly  against  a  low  wall  which  divided 
the  small,  paved  yard  from  the  street, 
before  a  rather  pretentious  house  in 
the  city  of  Jerusalem. 

The  man  whom  she  addressed  nodded 
thoughtfully,  his  eyes  lingering  on  the 
girl's  dark,  vivid  face  with  evident  en- 
joyment. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  slowly,  "for 
a  week  she  has  been  unlike  herself." 

"At  times,  she  is  as  haughty  and 
overbearing  as  ever,"  continued  the 
girl,  "then  a  sudden  change  passes  over 
her.  She  seems  bewildered,  almost 
timid,  and  becomes  gentle  and  kind.  I 
saw  it  first  as  I  combed  her  hair  one 
morning.  My  brush  slipped  and 
pulled  quite  sharply.  She  seized  it 
from  my  hand  and  beat  me  with  it 
furiously.  All  at  once  she  paused,  a 
strange  look  came  over  her  face;  she 
dropped  the  brush  and  began  to  pat 
me,  pityingly.  Then  she  gave  me  a 
string  of  coral,  bidding  me  cry  no 
more.  Often  has  she  beaten  me,  but 
never  before  has  she  softened  or  given 
me  gifts." 

"Yesterday,"  said  the  man,  "Peter 
and  myself  carried  her  litter,  as  usual, 
to  the  river.  There  she  was  joined  by 
Simon,  the  evil  faced  one,  who  comes 
so  often  here.  We  pushed  off  in  the 
barge  and  rowed  slowly,  keeping  near 
the  shady  bank.  She  suffered  Simon's 
embraces  freely  for  a  few  moments; 
suddenly  she  sat  upright,  looked  about 
her  in  a  strange  manner,  and  sharply 
commanded  us  to  row  back.  He  re- 
monstrated, but  the  mistress  sat  as  if 
dazed,  gazing  at  him  with  a  look  half- 


think  of  fearful,  half-loathing.  As  the  barge 
reatly  reached  the  shore,  Simon  jumped  out 
and  went  angrily  away,  but  she  re- 
mained indifferent.  On  the  way  home, 
she  stopped  us  to  throw  some  silver  to 
a  lame  leper.  Never  before  have  I 
seen  her  give  alms." 

"Last  night,"  the  girl  said,  "I  crept 
down  stairs  and  peeped  in  at  the  dance. 
Men  and  women  alike  were  half  drunk- 
en with  wine  and  excitement.  A  girl, 
wreathed  in  vines,  with  clusters  of 
grapes  in  her  hands,  danced  madly  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  a  ring  of  men 
circling  about  her.  They  called  for  our 
mistress  to  join  them  and  she  started 
forward,  then  stopped,  standing  as  if 
touched  by  some  mysterious  spell.  A 
silence  fell  over  all  the  dancers.    They 


THE  INTERRUPTED  BEATING. 


61 


A   SILENCE   FELL   OVER   THE   DANCERS. 


THO    YOUR   SINS  BE   AS   SCARLET. 


G3 


SHE    SUFFERED    SIMON  S    EMBRACES 
FREELY. 

gazed  at  one  another  as  if  in  terror, 
yet  wondering  what  they  feared. 
Finally  the  mistress  spoke,  sharply, 
bidding  them  go,  and  they  all  hurried 
away,  as  if  glad  to  leave." 

The  sunshine  was  pleasant  in  the 
little  yard,  and  the  two  lingered,  en- 
joying the  cool  morning  air.  A  young 
girl  hurrying  by  with  a  basket,  paused 
for  a  moment. 

"Why  stand  you  here,  with  faces  so 
serious?"  she  queried,  with  a  light 
laugh.  "Hast  felt  the  Nazarene's 
shadow  ?" 

"What  is  that?"  asked  the  maid 
curiously. 

"Have  you  not  heard  of  the  Naza- 
rene?  He  has  been  for  a  week  in  this 
neighborhood.  He  heals  the  lame,  the 
blind,  even  lepers,  by  a  touch  of  his 
hand.  Also  he  talks  of  love,  charity 
and  goodness,  calling  upon  the  people 
to  repent  and  lead  holy  lives.  He  hath 
a  wonderful  power.  ?Tis  said  he  has 
only  to  pass  thru  a  street  and  wherever 
his  shadow  falls,  people  leave  their 
work  or  their  pleasure  and  follow  him." 

The  two  servants  looked  at  each 
other,  wonderingly. 

"Who  is  this  Xazarene?"    asked  the 


that.  Some  say  that  he  is  a  prophet; 
others  that  he  is  a  trickster.  Some 
even  call  him  the  Christ.  I  know  not. 
But  certain  it  is  that  he  doeth  marvel- 
ous works." 

As  the  girl  went  her  way,  the  two 
faced  each  other  with  one  thought. 

"Can  it  be  the  spell  of  this  Xazarene 
has  touched  our  mistress?"  breathed 
the  maid. 

A  door  opened,  and  Mary,  mistress 
of  the  house,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
The  trailing  scarlet  robe  which  she 
wore,  loosely  bound  with  a  golden  cord, 
emphasized  the  tall,  slender  figure. 
Jewels  flashed  from  the  masses  of  dark 
hair,  glowed  about  the  bare  throat,  and 
sparkled  upon  the  delicate  hands,  now 
clenched  angrily. 

"Why  are  you  here,  idling  the  time 
away  ?"  she  began,  furiously.  "Is  there 
nothing  to  do,  that  you  must  stand 
gossiping  ?" 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  passing  her 
hand  across  her  eyes  and  leaning  for- 
ward. The  frightened  servants  shrank 
back,  expecting  further  rebuke,  but 
Mary  was  gazing  eagerly  down  the 
street. 


mm*  .w 

i , 

man. 


There  are  many  rumors  concerning 


SHE  STOPPED  TO  GIVE  ALMS  TO  A 
LAME   LEPER. 


64 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"It  is  the  leper,"  she  murmured, 
"he  is  healed." 

Turning,  they  saw  a  man,  erect, 
ruddy  with  the  glow  of  health,  his 
eyes  fixed  piercingly  upon  Mary's. 

"It  is,  indeed,  the  leper  to  whom 
she  threw  the  alms,"  whispered  the 
man. 

Moving  like  one  in  a  dream,  Mary 
advanced  to  the  gate. 

"By  what  means  are  ye  healed?" 
she  asked. 

"I  sought  the  Nazarene,"  replied  the 
stranger,  his  glowing  eyes  still  holding 
Mary's ;  "he  healeth  all  manner  of  sick- 
ness and  affliction." 

Mary  drew  herself  up  proudly,  en- 
deavoring to  cast  off  the  spell  of  the 
earnest  eyes. 

"I  have  no  sickness,  nor  affliction," 
she  said,  coldly. 

"He  healeth  sin,"  said  the  healed 
one,  quietly,  never  relaxing  the  steady 
gaze,  "He  'is  the  Christ !" 

Mary  whitened ;  her  dark  eyes 
wavered  and  fell.  "Where  dwelleth 
this  Nazarene?"  she  asked,  trembling- 

ly. 

"He  hath  no  fixed  abode.  They  who 
seek  him  earnestly,  find  him." 

Slowly,  Mary  turned,  and  beckoning 
the  maid,  entered  the  house.  In  her 
chamber,  she  looked  around  at  the 
costly  hangings,  the  sumptuous  fur- 
nishings, the  rich  and  gaudy  clothing 
strewn  about,  with  the  eyes  of  one  who 
sees  new  visions. 

"Get  me  a  plain  black  robe  and 
girdle,"  she  commanded,  "bring  them 
at  once." 

Silently,  Mary  cast  aside  the  scarlet 
robe,  the  golden  girdle  and  the  precious 
jewels.  Then,  donning  the  black  robe, 
she  went  swiftly,  with  rapt,  far-away 
•look,  down  the  stairs  and  out  the  gate, 
unheeding  the  wondering  maid's  timid 
question. 

The  sun  beat  fiercely  down  upon  the 
dusty  road  as  Mary  stood,  wondering, 
anxiously,  which  way  to  turn.  A  group 
of  men  and  women  came  toward  her, 
singing  psalms  of  rejoicing,  their  faces 
filled  with  gladness. 

"Knowest  thou  where  to  find  the 
Nazarene?"  she  asked  them. 


"He  hath  but  lately  been  preaching 
yonder,  on  the  hillside;  perhaps  he 
may  be  there  yet.  Look,  he  hath  healed 
my  babe,  that  was  sick  from  its  birth !" 
answered  a  woman,  holding  up  a  rosy 
infant,  crowing  with  delight. 

Along  the  narrow  road  leading  to- 
ward the  hill,  Mary  hastened.  The 
sun's  rays  grew  hotter,  the  dust  thick- 
er. It  was  with  delight  that  she  saw 
a  little  way  ahead,  a  roadside  well,  with 
a  group  of  women  drawing  water.  But 
they  turned  away,  at  her  eager  ap- 
proach, looking  scornfully  at  her  and 
refusing  to  lend  their  drinking  cups. 

"She  is  a  scarlet  woman,"  said  one, 
"let  us  stone  her." 

"I  seek  the  Nazarene,"  said  Mary, 
faintly,  "can  ye  tell  me  where  he  is?" 

A  swift  change  came  over  the  mock- 
ing group.  Jests  died  upon  their  lips 
and  stones  fell  from  their  hands,  as 
one  gave  a  gourd  of  water  to  the  tremb- 
ling woman,  and  another  offered  her 
cool,  ripe  figs. 

"The  Nazarene  was  preaching  on 
yonder  hilltop  but  recently.  Eest  here 
in  the  shade,  until  the  sun  sets,  ere  you 
climb  the  hill,"  they  urged. 

But  Mary  shook  her  head.  "He  may 
be  gone,  I  must  hasten,"  she  said,  and 
hurried  along  the  road  again. 

The  afternoon  sun  blazed  stronger 
and  fiercer.  Little  clouds  of  dust  arose 
at  every  step,  choking  the  traveler. 
Her  eyes  were  red  and  burning,  her 
throat  parched,  her  head  whirling,  as 
she  climbed  the  long  hill,  but  thru 
her  brain  echoed  the  words  of  the 
healed  man.  "He  healeth  sin.  They 
who  seek  him  earnestly,  find  him." 

On  the  hilltop,  a  group  of  great  trees 
stretched  out  their  green  branches  as  if 
in  welcome.     Mary  ran  toward  them. 

"It  is  here,  in  the  cool  shade,  that 
he  will  be  preaching,"  she  cried. 

But  in  the  grove  she  found,  to  her 
bitter  disappointment  and  dismay,  not 
the  Christ  whom  she  sought,  but  a 
noisy  crowd  of  revellers,  men  and 
women,  whom  she  knew  too  well,  eating 
and  drinking,  with  song  and  laughter. 

"How  now,  Mary,  art  thou  come  af- 
ter us?"  they  shouted,  gleefully.  "We 
looked  for  thee  to  join  our  party,  but 


66 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


could  get  no  word  of  thee  at  thy  house. 
Welcome  to  our  feast." 

"But  why  this  black  garb?"  queries 
a  bold-faced  girl.  "Is  Mary  bound  on 
some  pious  pilgrimage?" 

"  'Twere  a  pious  pilgrimage  to  find 
us,  surely/'  laughed  Simon,  one  of  the 
revellers,  "and  the  garb  is  a  clever  jest. 
But  now,  Saint  Mary,  your  quest  is 
ended,  wear  this  scarlet  cloak  in  token 
of  thy  triumph.  There !  Now  thou 
lookest  like  thyself." 

Faint,  exhausted,  bewildered  by  this 
unexpected  turn  of  events,  Mary  sank 
upon  the  ground  and  accepted  food 
and  drink.  The  wine  brought  new 
life  and  animation  and  she  began  to 
respond  to  the  jests  and  laughter,  half- 
forgetting  the  vision  she  had  followed 
thruout  the  day. 

"Tonight,  after  our  feast,"  said  a 
fair-haired  girl,  lifting  a  slender  wine 
glass,    "we    shall   dance    upon   yonder 


platform,  where  they  say  the  Nazarene 
hath  preached  to  thousands.  Friends, 
a  toast  to  the  Nazarene !" 

With  boisterous  laughter  they  filled 
their  cups,  but  Mary,  dashing  her  glass 
to  the  ground  and  flinging  aside  the 
scarlet  cloak,  cried  out,  "I  must  go  on ; 
I  can  no  longer  stay !"  and  fled  swiftly 
down  the  hillside,  leaving  the  crowd, 
silent  with  amazement,  staring  after 
her. 

"I  have  wasted  precious  hours," 
sobbed  Mary,  "which  way  shall  I  go? 
Shall  I  ever  find  him  ?" 

A  faint  cry  from  the  roadside  at- 
tracted her  attention.  Peering  into 
the  bushes,  rapidly  darkening  in  the 
twilight,  she  saw  a  young  child,  weep- 
ing bitterly,  over  a  tiny,  bruised  foot. 

"I  cannot  stop,"  said  Mary,  harden- 
ing her  heart  to  the  plaintive  appeal, 
and  starting  down  the  road  again,  "I 
must  delay  no  more." 


'AS  SHE  DID  IT  UNTO  ONE  OF  THE  LEAST  OF  MY  LITTLE  ONES. 


WHERE   IS   HE?"     ASKED   MARY. 


68 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


But  a  moment  later,  she  was  back, 
bending  over  the  child.  "Where  is 
thy  home,  little  one?"  she  cooed, 
gently. 

The  child  pointed  a  chubby  finger 
at  a  house  far  across  the  fields,  away 
from  the  road.  With  a  sigh,  Mary 
cradled  the  babe  gently  in  her  arms 
and  set  off  thru  the  gathering  shadows 
to  the  home,  where  a  grateful  mother 
received  the  child  with  joyous  thanks 
and  blessings. 

"Tarry  here  and  ^leep,"  begged  the 
mother,  "gladly  will  we  give  thee  food 
and  shelter." 

"Nay,"  said  Mary,  "I  seek  the  Christ, 
the  Nazarene.  Cans't  tell  me  aught  of 
him?" 

The  woman's  face  grew  troubled. 
"But  a  few  days  ago  he  was  preaching 


BEYOND,   ROSE   THE   HILL   OF  GOLGOTHA. 

and  healing  on  yon  hilltop.  Now, 
strange,  wild  rumors  are  afloat.  Today 
a  traveler  told  me  that  they  have  led 
him  out  from  Jerusalem,  toward  the 
hill  of  Golgotha,  to  crucify  him.  But 
that  cannot  be  true.  What  evil  hath 
he  done,  the  gentle  Nazarene?" 

With  a  heavy  heart,  Mary  returned 
to  the  road,  now  shining  like  a  white 
thread  in  the  clear  starlight.  "He  may 
be  dying,"  she  thought,  bitterly,  "while 


I  delay  with  a  weeping  babe.''  But  even 
as  she  spoke,  a  voice  came  softly  thru 
the  still  night,  "Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it 
unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  my  little 
ones,  ye  did  it  unto  me." 

On,  in  the  starry  night,  along  far, 
silent  stretches  of  smooth  road;  over 
hills,  standing  sharply  against  the  clear 
sky;  thru  black  patches  of  forest,  dark 
with  flickering  shadows,  Mary  hurried, 
with  an  eagerness  that  banished  fear 
and  fatigue.  Finally,  in  the  daylight's 
dim  dawning,  she  came  out  upon  a  hill- 
top and  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing. 
Far  in  the  background  lay  the  great 
city,  sleeping.  Beyond,  rose  the  hill  of 
Golgotha,  and,  straining  her  eyes,  she 
saw,  with  dread  foreboding  the  grim, 
ominous  outline  of  the  cross ! 

On  again,  thru  the  growing  radiance 
of  the  dawn,  along  a  winding  road; 
past  vineyards  and  olive  groves,  bright 
with  the  rising  sun  ;  past  herds  of  sheep 
and  cattle,  awakening  to  the  new  day; 
past  drowsy  shepherds,  returning  home- 
ward after  a  night  on  the  mountains ; 
up  a  straight,  steep,  narrow  road,  to 
the  top  of  the  hill  called  Golgotha. 

A  silent,  desolate  scene !  The  great 
cross,  empty ;  the  ground  trodden  bare 
by  the  multitudes  who  witnessed  the 
crucifixion;  sponges,  bottles,  and  great 
wooden  nails  lying  about ;  three  women, 
sobbing  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  the  weeping 
Mary. 

"He  is  laid  in  the  tomb  of  Joseph 
of  Arimathea,  yonder,"  replied  one  of 
the  women,  pointing. 

Torn  with  grief  and  despair,  Mary 
sought  the  tomb.  "Too  late,  too  late !" 
she  wailed.  "Must  I  carry  my  load  of 
sin  forever?  If  I  could  see  him  even 
now ;  if  I  could  but  touch  his  body !" 

Nearing  the  spot,  she  gave  a  cry  of 
hope.  The  great  stone  was  rolled 
away  from  the  door  of  the  tomb.  "Per- 
haps I  may  enter,  and  see  where  he 
lies,"  she  thought,  running  forward 
eagerly. 

But  at  the  door  of  the  tomb  one, 
whose  whole  figure  glowed  with  a  mys- 
tic, unearthly  light,  watched.  "What 
seekest  thou,  woman,"  he  asked,  calmly. 

"I  seek  the  Christ,"  she  answered, 


THE    ASCENSION. 


THO    YOUR   SINS   BE   AS   SCARLET. 


71 


imploringly,  "Could  I  see  the  spot 
where  he  lies?" 

"He  is  no  longer  here/'  replied  the 
watcher,  pointing  thru  the  door  of  the 
sepulcher,  where  the  winding  sheet  lay 
loose  upon  the  ground. 

Broken-hearted,  Mary  cast  herself 
down.  Convulsive  sobs  shook  the  slen- 
der body;  sparkling  tears  rolled  down 
upon  the  grass,  where  lay  the  woman, 
only  a  few  days  ago  so  proud  and  in- 
solent,  now   so  lowly   and  penitent. 

Lo,  the  tender,  tear-sprinkled  grass 


«««f 


S#r»r 


"Rise,  Mary/'  spoke  a  sweet  voice, 
"Rise,  and  weep  not." 

Springing  to  her  feet,  amid  the  fra- 
grant, flashing  blossoms,  the  woman 
gazed  upward  at  a  roseate,  quivering 
cloud,   thru   which   shone   a   luminous 


FROM   THE   CLOUD  FLOATED  TWO 
SNOWY  DOVES. 


UP  FROM  THE  GROUND  SPRANG  LILLIES. 

around  the  anguished  woman  quivered  ! 
Up  from  the  ground  sprang  lilies,  row 
upon  row  of  tall,  stately  golden-hearted 
blossoms,  their  waxen  petals  forming 
a  beautious,  radiant  circle  about  the 
prostrate  form. 


figure.  Slowly  from  the  cloud  fluttered 
two  snowy  doves,  settling  upon  Mary's 
shoulders,  and  at  their  touch  the  black 
garb  slipped  away,  and  she  stood  ar- 
rayed in  spotless  white. 

The  cloud  drifted  slowly  upward, 
vanishing  in  a  trail  of  silvery  mist,  but 
thru  the  still  air  floated  a  voice : 

"Tho  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they 
shall  be  as  white  as  snow." 


THE  STORY  OP   ESTHER 


By  Montanye  Perry 


rIVE  hundred  years  before  Christ, 
the  city  of  Susa  lay  in  the  up- 
lands of  Susania,  surrounded  by 
a  shining  network  of  rivers  which 
made  the  region  a  proverb  for  lux- 
uriance and  fertility. 

A  festival  of  unparalleled  magnifi- 
cence was  in  progress.  For  six  months 
the  fortress  palace  of  Shushan  had 
been  filled  with  successive  companies  of 
chiefs  of  the  Persian  and  Median  arm- 
ies, nobles  and  magnates  of  the  empire. 
Half  a  year  had  the  feasting  and 
revelry  continued  by  day  and  by  night 
while,  far  in  the  Eas^  and  West,  hum- 
ble subjects  of  the  king  were  fighting 
and  dying  for  the  great  empire,  stretch- 
ing from  India  to  Ethiopia. 

Flushed  with  new  reports  of  the  suc- 
cess of  his  armies,  King  Ahasuerus, 
known  to  the  Greeks  as  Xerxes,  sat 
upon  a  raised  seat  at  the  head  of  a 
great  table  in  the  court  of  the  garden 
of  the  king's  palace.  Parti-colored 
hangings,  held  by  cords  of  white  and 
purple  to  marble  pillars,  turned  the 
vast  space  into  an  open  air  banquet 
hall.  The  ground  was  paved  with 
varied  shades  of  marble,  and  stretched 
in  long  rows  were  couches  of  gold  and 
silver,  occupied  by  the  guests. 

Wine  and  excitement  had  turned  the 
head  of  Ahasuerus  and  he  called  upon 
the  seven  chamberlains  who  waited  be- 
fore him  to  bring  Vashti,  the  queen, 
unto  him  that  the  princes  and  the  peo- 
ple might  behold  her  beauty.  But 
Vashti,  fair  and  modest,  mindful  of 
the  king's  dignity  as  well  as  her  own. 
refused  to  come  before  the  half- 
drunken  throng.  Unaccustomed  to 
having  his  slightest  wish  disregarded, 
the  king's  anger  was  furious.  The 
chief  chamberlain  was  Vashti's  enemy, 


and  upon  his  counsel  a  decree  went 
forth  that  Vashti  should  nevermore 
come  into  the  presence  of  her  king, 
but  that  the  fairest  maidens  thruout 
the  provinces  should  be  brought  to- 
gether at  Shushan  that  a  new  queen 
might  be  chosen. 

Near  the  great  castle  of  Shushan 
dwelt  an  orphan  maiden,  Esther, 
daughter  of  the  tribe  of  Benjamin, 
who  had  spent  her  life  among  the  Jew- 
ish exiles  in  Persia  where  she  lived 
under  the  protection  of  her  cousin, 
Mordecai.  Of  unusual  beauty  and 
character  was  this  young  Jewess. 
Fair,  yet  modest;  brave,  yet  gentle; 
the  oldest  blood  of  history  warmed  her 
veins;  the  light  of  generations  of 
brave  ancestors  glowed  in  her  starry 
eyes. 

"I  cannot,"  she  pleaded,  when  Mor- 
decai proposed  that  she  go  in  with  the 
maidens  assembled  at  the  palace;  "I 
cannot  go  in  before  the  great  king.  I 
love  thee,  my  cousin.  Father  and 
mother  and  home  hast  thou  been  to  me 
all  thru  my  years.  How,  then,  shall 
I  leave  thee,  to  go  to  this  king  who  is 
not  of  my  race  or  kindred  ?" 

"Listen,  Esther,"  spoke  Mordecai 
gravely.  "Thou  knowest  that  I  love 
thee  as  my  own  daughter.  Tenderly 
have  I  reared  thee  from  a  babe.  Now 
I  grow  old,  and  long  for  thy  honor  and 
advancement — aye,  for  thy  protection 
when  I  am  gone  from  thee.  Keeper 
am  I  of  the  palace  gates.  Every  day 
will  I  send  thee  messages.  Fear  not. 
Think  of  the  honor  to  thy  race  should 
the  great  Ahasuerus  make  thee  his 
queen.  Gro  into  the  palace  as  I  bid 
thee.  Disclose  not  thy  race  nor 
kindred.     All  shall  be  well." 

When  the  day  came  on  which  Esther 


74 


76 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE. 


stood  before  the  king,  he  gazed  long 
upon  her  fresh,  young  beauty.  Then, 
turning  to  his  counsellors,  he  said, 
"Let  the  search  be  ended.  My  queen 
is  found." 

Again  a  great  feast  was  given  unto 
all  the  nobles  and  princes  of  the  land — 
the  wedding  feast  of  Esther — and  the 
maiden  obtained  favor  in  the  sight  of 
all  who  saw  her.  During  the  days  of 
the  feast,  her  beauty  and  sweet  obe- 
dience so  moved  the  king  that  he  placed 
a  crown  of  gold  upon  her  head,  honor- 
ing her  above  all  women.  But,  as 
Mordecai  had  charged  her,  she  dis- 
closed not  her  race  nor  family. 

Among  the  dignitaries  of  the  court 
of  Susa  was  Hainan,  who  held  the  post 
of  Grand  Yizier  of  the  Empire.  This 
man  was  of  the  race  of  Amalekites, 
bitter  enemies  of  the  Jews.  Advanced 
by  the  king  to  higher  and  higher  hon- 
ors, secure  in  his  wealth  and  power, 
Haman  was  yet  unsatisfied.  Mordecai, 
the  Jew  who  sat  at  the  king's  gates, 
refused  to  pay  obeisance  to  the  great 
Haman  as  he  entered  and  left  the  cas- 
tle. Angered  and  humiliated  by  this 
affront,  Haman  determined  at  one  blow 
to  revenge  himself  upon  Mordecai  and 
blot  out  the  hated  race  of  Jews.  Rep- 
resenting to  Ahasuerus  that  they  were 
a  dangerous  people  who  insisted  upon 
obeying  their  own  laws  rather  than 
those  of  the  king,  he  obtained  a  decree 
that  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  Adar  all 
Jews  thruout  the  provinces  should  be 
slain  and  their  property  seized  for  the 
king. 

When  this  decree  went  abroad  Mor- 
decai, forsaking  his  office  at  the  king's 
gates,  stood  wailing  in  the  streets  of 
the  city,  clothed  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 
Thruout  the  city  of  Susa  and  all  the 
provinces,  lamentation  and  despair 
filled  every  Jewish  household  But  to 
Mordecai,  as  he  prayed,  came  one 
gleam  of  hope.  "Esther,  the  child 
whom  I  have  reared,"-  he  murmured ; 
"will  she  save  her  people?" 

Praying  and  fasting  thruout  the 
night,  in  the  morning  Mordecai  sent  a 
copy  of  the  king's  decree  to  Esther, 
saying  to  the  messenger,  "Charge  the 
queen  to  go  in  unto  the  king  and  make 


supplication  for  her  people."  But 
Esther,  distracted  and  terrified,  torn 
Avith  love  for  her  cousin  and  her  people, 
returned  a  message,  saying:  "All  the 
king's  servants  do  know  that  to  go  un- 
bidden into  the  king's  presence  is 
death,  unless  the  king  shall  hold  out 
his  golden  sceptre,  and  I  have  not  been 
called  unto  the  king  for  many  days. 
What  then  shall  I  do?" 

That  night,  in  his  sackcloth  and 
ashes,  came  Mordecai  before  the  king's 
gates,  and  Esther  went  forth  to  speak 
with  him,  secretly.  "Think  not, 
Esther,"  said  Mordecai,  "that  thou 
shalt  escape  in  the  king's  house.  But, 
my  child,  think  not  at  all  of  thyself  or 
of  me,  but  of  our  race.  Have  I  taught 
thee  all  the  glorious  history  of  our 
fathers  that  thou  shouldst  forget  it  in 
thy  people's  hour  of  need?  Who 
knowest  but  thou  art  come  into  the 
kingdom  for  such  a  time  as  this?" 

Then  Esther,  lifting  her  eyes  filled 
with  holy  purpose,  said,  "Go,  gather 
together  all  the  Jews  that  are  present 
in  Shushan,  and  fast  ye  for  me,  and 
neither  eat  nor  drink  for  three  days, 
night  or  day;  I  also  and  my  maidens 
will  fast  in  like  manner,  and  so  will  T 
go  in  unto  the  king,  and  if  I  perish,  I 
perish." 

Three  days  after  the  meeting  with 
Mordecai,  Esther,  faint  from  her  long 
fast,  pale  with  the  dread  of  going  un- 
bidden into  the  king's  presence,  went 
timidly  into  the  inner  court.  As  he 
looked  upon  her  beauty,  the  king  was 
moved  with  compassion  and  spoke 
kindly :  "Fear  not,  thou  shalt  not  be 
harmed.  For  my  subjects  is  the  law 
made,  not  for  my  queen.  What  is  thy 
request  ?" 

"If  it  seem  good  unto  the  king, 
let  the  king  and  Haman  come  this 
day  to  a  banquet  which  I  have  pre- 
pared." 

"Make  haste,"  said  the  king  to  a 
chamberlain,  "and  bid  Haman  come 
unto  the  queen's  banquet." 

But  when  the  king  and  Haman  came 
Esther  was  moved  to  defer  her  petition. 
Exerting  all  her  powers  to  please  the 
king,  she  asked  only  that  they  should 
come  to  a  second  banquet  the  next  day. 


78 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


"It  may  be  that  God  will  speak  to  me 
in  the  night,"  she  thought,  "and  show 
me  how  I  may  prevail  with  the  king; 
or,  peradventure,  the  king  may  see  a 
vision  to-night.     I  will  wait." 

The  cnp  of  Hainan's  honors  seemed 
brimming.  "Twice  am  I  bidden  by 
the  queen  to  dine  with  the  king/'  he 
said  to  his  wife,  Zerish;  "honors  and 
wealth  are  mine.  Yet  all  this  availeth 
me  not,  so  long  as  I  see  Mordecai  the 
Jew  sitting  at  the  palace  gates." 

"Why  should  this  Jew  remain  to  vex 
thy  heart,  when  vengeance  waits  upon 
thy  word?"  said  Zerish.  "Let  a  gal- 
lows be  built,  fifty  cubits  high,  in  the 
court  of  your  house,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing speak  thou  to  the  king  that  Mor- 
decai be  hanged  on  it.  Then  shalt 
thou  go  merrily  to  thy  banquet." 

That  night  sleep  fled  from  the  king. 
Tossing  restlessly  upon  his  bed  for  long 
hours,  he  finally  commanded  that  the 
book  of  chronicles  be  read  to  him.  It 
chanced  that  the  great  book  opened  at 
the  place  where  it  was  recorded  how 
Mordecai,  soon  after  the  marriage  of 
Ahasuerus  and  Esther,  had  discovered 
the  purpose  of  two  chamberlains  to 
murder  the  king,  and  foiled  the  plot, 
even  as  the  enemies  were  almost  upon 
him. 

"What  honor  has  been  done  to  Mor- 
decai for  this?"   questioned  the  king. 

"Nothing  has  been  done  for  him," 
replied  the  reader. 

At  that  moment  Hainan  sought  the 
king  for  permission  to  hang  Mordecai 
upon  his  gallows,  but  before  he  could 
speak  the  king  demanded :  "What  shall 
be  done  unto  the  man  whom  the  king 
delighteth  to  honor?" 

Haman,  supposing  the  question  re- 
ferred to  himself,  hastened  to  reply: 
"Let  the  royal  apparel  be  brought,  and 
the  horse  the  king  rideth  upon,  and  let 
the  apparel  and  the  horse  be  delivered 
unto  him  and  cause  him  to  ride  on 
horseback  thru  the  city,  and  proclaim 
before  him,  'Thus  shall  it  be  done  unto 
the  man  whom  the  king  delighteth  to 
honor !" 

Then  said  the  king  unto  Haman, 
"Make  haste  and  take  the  apparel  and 
the  horse  as  thou  hast  said,  and  do  even 


so  to  Mordecai,  the  Jew  that  sitteth  at 
the  royal  gates." 

In  wrath  and  shame  Haman  obeyed 
the  king,  afterward  hastening  to  Zerish, 
dismay  and  terror  in  his  heart.  Fear 
fell  upon  Zerish  as  she  listened.  "This 
Mordecai:  is~Trf"tire  seed  of  the  Jews; 
woe  is  upon  us  if  he  prevail  against 
thee.  But  haste  to  the  banquet. 
Twice  has  the  queen  bidden  thee.  It 
may  be  thou  yet  canst  triumph  thru 
her  favor." 

Esther  knew  not  of  the  honor  done 
to  Mordecai,  yet  on  the  second  day  of 
the  banquet  her  heart  was  lighter  and 
she  found  much  favor  with  the  king, 
so  that  he  said  unto  her,  "What  is  thy 
petition,  and  what  is  thy  request?  It 
shall  be  granted  even  unto  the  half  of 
my  kingdom." 

Her  hour  had  come.  Silently  pray- 
ing Jehovah's  aid,  Esther  sank  at  the 
king's  feet,  her  lustrous  eyes  turned 
pleadingly  upward,  her  desire  bringing 
a  burning  glow  upon  her  fair,  pure 
face.  "If  it  seem  good  unto  the  king, 
and  if  I  have  found  favor  in  thy  sight, 
oh,  spare  my  life  at  my  petition  and 
my  people  at  my  request.  For  we  are 
sold,  I  and  my  people,  to  be  slain,  to 
be  destroyed,  and  to  perish,  and  the 
enemy  who  has  done  it  is  this  wicked 
Haman." 

Even  as  the  wretched  Haman  fell 
down  before  the  king  to  implore  his 
life,  a  chamberlain  entered,  saying: 
"Behold  there  stands  waiting,  built  by 
Haman,  a  gallows  $  fifty  cubits  high. 
What  is  the  king's  pleasure  concern- 
ing it  ?" 

And  the  king,  lifting  the  lovely, 
trembling  queen,  understanding  now 
the  days  of  her  terror  and  anguish, 
answered  the  chamberlain,  "Hang 
Haman  thereon !" 

Endowed  with  the  dead  Hainan's 
office,  honors  and  wealth,  his  relation- 
ship with  the  queen  acknowledged, 
Mordecai  sought  Esther  in  the  court  of 
the  palace. 

"The  god  of  our  fathers  is  with  thee, 
my  child,"  he  spoke  joyously.  "Thou 
hast  saved  thy  people.  Thru  thee  shall 
our  race  come  again  to  strength  and 
power.     Great  is  Jehovah  !" 


SENSATIONAL     LOGGING 


By  Marie  Coolidge  Rasft 


THE  great  movement  called  "Con- 
servation of  American  Forests 
and  Waterways"  has  not  yet 
reached  such  a  stage  of  development  as 
entirely  to  eliminate  the  picturesque 
features  of  the  lumber  industry.  Sen- 
sational logging — thrilling  and  spec- 
tacular— is  still  a  feature  of  the  Cum- 
berland mountains,  just  as  it  is  in  the 
great  Northwest,  in  the  Adirondacks 
and  down  in  the  yellow-pine  belt  of 
the  "Sunny  South."  Modern  inventions 
and  modern  ingenuity  have  done  much 
to  change  methods  and  to  better  con- 
ditions, but  the  result  is  the  same  as  it 
was  in  the  days  when  donkey  engines, 
temporary  railroads,  telephones  and 
dynamite  were  unknown. 

Forestry  experts  agree  that  the  great 
industry  must  soon  run  its  course,  even 
if  the  government  does  not  intervene 
in  a  very  radical  manner  for  the  pro- 
tection of  America's  birthright,  the 
forests.  As  the  industry  of  logging  is 
waning,  so  therefore  is  the  interest  in 
logging  increasing,  and  the  story  of 
the  great  forest  slaughter  becomes  a 
real  factor  of  education.  A  few  gen- 
erations from  now  it  will  doubtless  be- 
come a  mere  matter  of  history.  As 
the  last  buffalo  to-day  is  of  more 
value  than  the  whole  herd  was  before 
civilization  crept  westward,  so  do  the 
latter  days  of  logging  increase  in  im- 
portance as  they  near  their  end. 

As  absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder — even  so  of  the  forests.  The 
old  woodsman,  who  tells  the  exciting 
tale  of  the  days  when  he  rode  log-rafts 
down  the  Ohio,  or  the  Susquehanna ; 
the  business  man,  who  recalls  the  flays 
of  his  boyhood  in  the  mountains,  when 
the  sound  of  the  woodchopper's  axe 
seemed  louder  in  the  stillness  than  the 


honk  of  an  automobile  now  sounds  in 
a  city  street;  the  university  freshman 
just  come  from  his  western  home 
among  the  pineries;  even  the  most 
ignorant  chopper  on  a  log  job,  is  now, 
at  heart,  a  conservationist.  The  gen- 
eral agitation  of  the  subject  has  moved 
him  more  than  he  himself  realizes. 
Even  the  capitalist  who  owns  the  forest 
and  knows  so  well  its  monetary  value, 
becomes — for  material  reasons  if  not 
for  poetical  ones — more  or  less  a  con- 
servationist, and  begins  to  husband  his 
resources.  Everything  possible  is  now 
done  to  prevent  careless  felling,  which, 
in  the  past,  has  done  so  much  to  destroy 
the  many  small,  growing,  sap  trees. 
Now,  engineering  methods  are  brought 
into  play.  There  is  clear,  methodical 
sighting  to  get  the  proper  direction  for 
the  falling  tree.  The  chopping  is 
done  with  regularity  and  with  scien- 
tific precision.  Even  the  quick,  deft 
understroke  is  important,  which,  with 
the  clever  use  of  wedges,  brings  the 
great  tree  down  in  exactly  the  right 
spot. 

All  of  the  work  is  systematized,  and 
nowhere  can  it  be  studied  to  better 
advantage,  and  surrounded  by  more 
beautiful  scenery,  than  in  the  Cumber- 
land mountains.  That  picturesque 
borderland  between  the  Blue  Grass 
State  and  "Old  Virginny  "  famous  for 
its  feuds,  romances  and  tragedies,  is 
now  the  scene  of  some  of  the  most 
remarkable  engineering  of  modern 
times. 

A  trip  there  is  interesting,  exciting 
and  never-to-be-forgotten.  The  route 
is  romantic,  following  as  it  does  a  pic- 
turesque trout  stream  most  of  the  way. 
and  at  times  the  road  is  so  far  above 
the  stream  that  the  latter  seems  but  a 


81 


82 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


tiny,  glistening  ribbon  far  below.  In 
the  gray  of  the  morning,  when  the 
start  is  made,  the  air  seems  cool;  but 
as  the  sun  brightens,  the  dampness  is 
absorbed.  The  fragrant  breath  of  the 
pines,  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  the 
sparkling  streamlets,  trickling  down 
over  huge,  moss-imbedded  and  fern- 
decked  rocks  on  every  side,  charm  the 
senses  of  the  most  unpoetic,  and  quite 
enthrall  the  nature  lover.  At  times, 
the  gaps  in  the  mountains  become  so 
narrow  that  the  sky  is  but  a  narrow 
strip;  oi:  blue,  standing  out  in  bold  re- 
lief from  an  exquisite  frame  of  forest 
green.  :  At  certain  points,  a  view  can 
be  secured  of  no  less  than  eight  or  ten 
mountains  extending  down  into  one 
ravine. 

It  is  a  real  lumber  country.  Wal- 
nut,: yellow  poplar,  pine — almost  every 
variety*:  of  ■  timber  known  in  this 
section  of  the  country  is  represented. 
And  "there  are  some  mute  evidences  of 
the  past./  An  old  log  chute,  evidently 
constructed  in  the  clays   of  long  ago, 


tells  a  story  as  plainly  as  words.  It  is 
partly  filled  with  logs.  Work  had  been 
pushed  rapidly,  when  the  spring 
"break  up"  occurred,  and  everything 
had  to  be  abandoned  just  as  it  stood. 
Some  of  the  logs  are  moss-covered  now, 
but  they  silently  tell  the  story  of  log- 
ging as  it  was  conducted  in  the  days 
when  nature  was  expected  to  work  un- 
assisted, and  when,  in  order  to  get  the 
logs  to  the  mills,  it  was  necessary  to 
wait  for  a  "freshet." 

Now,  nature  is  given  many  rein- 
forcements. In  many  places  the 
mountain  railway  is  nature's  principal 
crutch;  but,  at  this  borderland  point, 
a  railroad  is  an  impossibility:  so  the 
waters  of  Elkhorn  Creek  are  banked, 
forming  an  immense  reservoir,  into 
which  the  newly  cut  tree-logs  are 
thrown,  until  sometimes  more  than 
100,000  logs  are  there  ready  for  ship- 
ping. 

Life  in  a  lumber  camp,  to  those  who 
live  it  year  after  year,  is  monotonous 
and  uneventful.     It  is  very  still.     In 


EVERY  LOG    IS    MARKED    WITH    THE    COMPANY'S    MARK. 


SENSATIONAL   LOGGING. 


83 


TYPICAL  -SCENE    IN.  THE  PICTURESQUE  "  CUMBERLANDS. 


the  early  morning,  just  when  the^  magic 
spell  'of-  tlie  mountain  grandeur  and 
solitude  is  being  enjoyed  to  its" greatest 
extent,  "the"  visitor  suddenly  defects  a 
strong  aroma  of  hot  coffee"  and  frying 
bacon.  Before  there  is  time 'for  a 
second  sniff,  a  new  sound  breaks  the 
stillness — a  call,  so  out  of  place  and 
so  unexpected,  that  it  seems  almost  un- 
canny in  its  incongruity. 

"Kitty,  kitty,  kit-ty !" 

It  is  a  man's  voice.  A  few  yards 
more  and  the  imaginary  hermit  is  dis- 
covered. A  stalwart,  bearded  individ- 
ual, with  a  piece  of  burlap  pinned 
about  him  as  an  apron,  is  standing  at 
the  door  of  a  cabin.  It  is  one  of  a 
small  settlement  of  cabins.  He  holds 
in  his  "hand  a  basin  of  food.  Coming 
from  'over  the  wood-pile,"  which  orna- 
ment's the  "door  yard,  is  a  "kitty,"  in 
other  words,  a  cat.  From  the  shrub- 
bery, a'  short  distance  away,  comes  her 
duplicate.  Rising  from  a  sun  bath  is 
still  another  of  the  same  name,  while 


still  others  appear  in  the  distance. 
The  man  sets  down  the  basin  of  food 
and  .greets  the  strangers  cordially. 

Hermit  ?  Ah, _  no.  .  The  cook — the 
cook  Jon  the  '  log-job — the  autocrat  of 
the  breakfast  table,  the  most  important 
individual  on  the  Top  of  that  mountain. 
He's  waiting  for  the  men  to  come  to 
supper  now,  and  he  has  a  whole  batch 
of  dried-apple  pies  setting  out  in  a  row 
to  cool.  They  look  tempting  enough, 
after  our  long  trip  up  the  mountain, 
to  satisfy  even-  an  epicure.  The  cook 
has  a  few  minutes  -to  wait,  and  he  ex- 
plains- all  the"  mysteries  of  the  cook 
house;  The  cabins  at  right  and  left 
are  the  bunk  houses.  Then  there  is 
the  store.  A  "tip-top  store,"  so  he 
says,  where  a  man  can  get  any  kind  of 
tobacco,  woolen  socks,  or  anything  he 
wants.     There  is  a  good  stable,  too. 

"Look  at  them  cows,"  he  says. 
They  are  indeed  worth  looking  at,  and 
the  visitor  smiles  in  anticipation  of 
having   two    cups    of   coffee   with    real 


84 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


cream  for  his  supper  that  night. 
Then  there  are  other  cabins  pointed 
out. 

"One  belongs  to  the  'boss/  He  don't 
often  come  up,  but  the  place  is  always 
kept  ready  for  him/7  explains  the  cook, 
who,  by  the  way,  has  an  assistant,  a 
"cookee,"  whose  unenviable  duty  it  is 
always  to  do  what  the  cook  does  not 
want  to  do  himself. 

That  luckless  cookee  now  gets  the 
food  on  the  tables,  as  the  men  are 
"washing  up"  for  supper.  They  troop 
in  from  all  sides,  laden  with  axes  and 
dinner  pails.  All  are  sturdy  and 
healthy,  the  inevitable  reward  of  liv- 
ing an  out-of-door  life.  And  how 
they  eat !  No  sign  of  dyspepsia  there. 
No  complaining  about  the  food.  John- 
son's pies  are  pronounced  "cracker- 
jacks."  The  biscuits?  No  one  has 
time  to  mention  them.  Each  seems  to 
fear  that  if  he  does  so,  they  will 'all  be 
gone  before  he  has  another  chance  at 
them.  If  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is 
in  the  eating,  those  biscuits  are  well 
proven,  for  they  are  being  eaten  at  the 
rate  of — shall  we  say,  a  mile  a  minute. 
Everyone  is  jovial  when  the  time  comes 
for  speech,  and  the  pipes  are  brought 
out,  but  the  speeches  are  short  and  to 
the  point.  "Early  to  bed  and  early  to 
rise"  is  the  old-fashioned  motto  of  the 
lumber  camp,  and  it  is  not  long  before 
there  is  a  general  exodus  for  the  bunk 
house. 

Here  the  wooden  bunks  are  arranged 
tier  upon  tier,  and  the  woodsmen  are 
soon  as  snugly  stowed  away  as  they 
would  be  in  a  municipal  lodging  house. 
They  have  worked  hard,  and  their 
sleep  is  as  hearty  and  as  healthful  as 
were  their  appetites.  All  day  long 
they  had  tramped  thru  those  forests. 
To-morrow  it  is  all  to  be  enacted  over 
again. 

Before  daylight  the  clang  of  the 
great  bell  in  the  hands  of  Johnson,  the 
cook,  brings  them  tumbling  out  of 
their  bunks  to  perform  their  morning 
ablutions  at  the  free-for-all  fountain 
out  in  the  center  of  the  forest  campus. 
Long  rows  of  dinner  pails  have  now 
taken  the  place  of  the  rows  of  pies  seen 
the  night  before.     The  pies  are  within 


— a  great  triangular  slab  in  each  pail. 
The  cook  is  a  generous  soul.  He  loves 
pie,  himself.  He  watches  the  depart- 
ure of  the  woodsmen  as  a  mother 
watches  her  children  off  to  school. 

The  work  does  not  lie  close  to  the 
camp.  Some  of  the  men  have  a  long 
tramp  before  them.  As  the  timber 
belt  recedes,  the  choppers  must  move 
onward.  Behind  them  come  the 
"barkers,"  the  sharp,  short  blows  of 
whose  hatchets  resound  and  echo,  not 
unmusically,  awakening  the  solemn 
stillness.  The  bark  as  it  is  peeled,  is 
sent  skimming  down  the  bark  chutes 
to  be  loaded  on  the  cars.  "Buckers"  is 
the  name  by  which  the  men  are  known 
who  saw  the  trees  into  logs.  Some- 
times they  have  the  help  of  the  horses 
in  using  the  great  saws,  but  usually 
they  work  in  pairs,  and  two  good  saw- 
yers can  accomplish  a  surprising 
amount  of  work  in  a  day. 

No  factory  in  the  land  has  its  work 
more  systematized  than  it  is  on  a  log- 
drive.  No  man  may  do  another  man's 
work.  He  is  hired  for  the  one  thing 
and  he  must  do  it.  The  "scaler"  is 
usually  a  man  of  some  education  and 
considerable  mathematical  ability.  He 
needs  it.  Every  log  is  marked  at  each 
end  with  the  company's  mark.  As  cat- 
tle are  branded  in  the  West,  so  are  the 
logs  marked  with  the  owner's  sign. 
The  scaler  must  enter  every  one  of 
them  on  his  tally  board,  and  later 
transfer  them  to  his  book.  With  a 
long  measuring  stick,  known  as  a  log- 
rule,  and  a  tally-board,  he  travels  over 
those  freshly  hewn  logs  from  morning 
till  night,  measuring  each  one  in  length 
and  diameter  and  registering  it.  It  is 
a  tiresome,  uninteresting  task,  altho 
light  in  comparison  to  the  work  done 
by  the  "buckers"  and  "barkers." 

The  hoarse  shriek  of  the  little  moun- 
tain engine,  known  as  a  "donkey,"  con- 
trasts strangely  with  the  surroundings. 
This  donkey-engine  has  proved  a  god- 
send ;  for  by  means  of  cables  and  flat 
cars,  it  gets  the  logs  very  quickly  from 
the  place  they  are  felled  to  the  place  of 
their  shipping.  Some  of  the  old- 
fashioned  skid-ways,  down  which  the 
were    once    shot    with    frightful 


SENSATIONAL   LOGGING. 


85 


THE    DAM    AFTEB    BEING       SPLASHED. 


velocity  to  the  water,  far  below,  are 
still  to  be  seen,  but  the  donkey-engine 
has  largely  superseded  them.  When 
these  swift-moving  logs  strike  the 
stream,  the  water  dashes  up  and  foams 
like  a  seething  maelstrom.  The  men 
who  jump  about,  pike-poles  in  hand, 
upon  these  crashing,  rolling  logs, 
which  are  now  far  under  water,  now 
up  on  end,  and  now  lost  in  blinding 
spray,  take  their  lives  in  their  hands 
when  they  undertake  this  work. 

Up  at  the  camp  the  horses  still  do 
their  regular  quota  of  labor.  When 
other  means  of  transporting  them  are 
not  possible,  they  are  used  for  hauling 
the  logs.  When  the  donkey-engine  is 
used,  a  cable  it  attached  to  a  log  and 
the  signal  is  given  for  the  engine  to 
wind  up  the  cable.  As  it  does  so,  the 
log  moves  slowly  forward.  "Hook- 
tenders/'  as  they  are  called,  are  watch- 
ing for  snags,  stumps  and  other  ob- 
structions; and  as  such  are  reached  a 
signal  is  griven  and  the  engine  stops 
until  the  difficulty  has  been  remedied. 


Back  to  the  camp  from  scenes  like 
these,  and  one  realizes  what  it  is  that 
gives  to  those  sturdy  foresters  their 
wholesome  appetite  for  pork  and  beans 
and  dried  apple  pie.  But  even  in 
camp  there  comes  a  time  when  things 
begin  to  happen — a  day  when  there  is 
hurry,  and  excitement,  and  danger. 
It  is  the  event  of  the  year. 

"Going  to  splash  the  dam  to-morrow, 
Pete?"  calls  the  cook  to  the  "jobber," 
as  the  latter  is  making  ready  to  pile 
into  his  bunk  for  the  night. 

"So  I  hear,"  yawns  the  jobber; 
"good  f er  us,  great  sport,  eh  ?" 

"Yep,  get  the  boys  out  early." 

And  the  boys  get  out  early.  They 
get  out  and  have  breakfast  at  four 
o'clock.  No  one  would  miss  that  splash, 
even  if  he  could.  Pike-poles,  axes, 
ropes,  dynamite — everything  is  ready. 
The  great  feature  of  the  log  drive  is  at 
hand.  The  four  massive  gates,  which 
hold  back  the  waters  in  the  reservoir, 
and  which  are  held  in  place  by  heavy 
braces   on   each   abutment,   are   to   be 


86 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


destroyed.     At  each  of  these  braces  a  gates  swing  open,  and  the  great  body 

charge  of  dynamite  is  placed.  of  water  and  logs  rush  thru  in  a  seeth- 

Some  preparations,  and  at  last  all  is  ing,  foaming,  tumbling  mass.     Majes- 

ready.  tic,  yet  frightful,  it  crashes  down  thru 


HAULING    LOGS     TO    THE    RESERVOIR. 


"Look   out,   look   out !     Let  'er   go,  the  dry,  creek  bed,  gathering  impetus 

Bill!"  with  every  foot  of  water  released,  and 

There  is  a  deafening  crash,  as  the  on  it  rushes  down  the  stream, 

four  blasts  go  off  simultaneously.     The  Along   the   banks   the   lumber   crew 


SENSATIONAL   LOGGING. 


87 


A     JAM     OF     LOGS. 


hasten  to  see  that  all  goes  well  at  the 
"bend."  The  logs  must  go  out.  They 
must  reach  the  Ohio.  They  must  not 
jam.  If  they  do,  someone  must  go 
out  and  straighten  them. 

A  log  jam  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to 
deal  with.  Beautiful  as  the  Cumber- 
land is,  in  summer,  a  good-sized  flood 
and  100,000  logs  in  a  jam  make  a  com- 
bination that  is  not  attractive  except 
as  a  sensational  spectacle.  In  that 
respect  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  nature's 


achievements,  and  only  those  who  have 
actually  witnessed  one,  or  taken  part  in 
dislocating,  untangling  and  otherwise 
calming  and  quieting  that  jam,  and 
persuading  it  to  go  on  in  the  proper 
way,  can  realize  what  a  tremendous 
undertaking  it  is.  Insurance  com- 
panies understand  it  full  well,  and  the 
"lumber-jack"  whose  career  is  to  be 
spent  in  close  relation  to  log-jams,  is 
invariably  classed,  in  occupation,  under 
the  head  of  "extra  hazardous." 


"A  room  with  pictures  and  a  room  without  pictures,  differ  nearly 
as  much  as  a  room  with  windows  and  a  room  without  windows ;  for  pictures 
are  loopholes  of  escape  to  the  soul,  leading  it  to  other  scenes  and  spheres,  where 
the  fancy  for  a  moment  may  revel,  refreshed  and  delighted.  Pictures  are 
consolers  of  loneliness,  and  a  relief  to  the  jaded  mind,  and  windows  to  the 
imprisoned  thought;  they  are  books,  histories,  and  sermons — which  we  can  read 
without  the  trouble  of  turning  over  the  leaves." — John  Gilbert. 

"Fain  would  I  Raphael's  god-like  art  rehearse,  where,  from  the  mingled 
strength  of  shade  and  light,  a  new  creation  rises  to  my  sight;  such  heavenly 
figures  from  his  pencil  flow,  so  warm  with  life  his  blended  colors  glow." — - 
Addison. 


THE    PARTING   OF    NAPOLEON    AND   JOSEPHINE. 
JULIA  SWAYNE  AS  JOSEPHINE.         WILLIAM   HUMPHREY  AS  NAPOLEON. 


TO 

TO 


AGE  VS.  YOUTH 


CX3Cg3 

TO 


By  Roy  Mason 


THE  air  was  electric  with  excite- 
ment in  the  office  of  John  Norton 
&  Co.,  Bankers  and  Brokers. 
The  heir  to  the  business  was  clue  to 
arrive  that  day.  It  was  just  a  month 
since  the  revered  and  beloved  head  of 
the  firm  had  passed  away.  Old  John 
Norton  was  a  man  who  deserved  and 
inspired  confidence.  The  heads  of 
many  of  his  office  staff  had  grown  grey 
in  loyal  service.  Three  of  them,  James 
Blake,  old  Norton's  confidential  clerk, 
Henry  Wilson  and  William  Burke,  all 
of  them  with  silver  hair,  sat  pretend- 
ing to  work  at  their  desks  in  the  great 
outer  office.  But  their  attitudes  were 
tense  and  nervous,  and  their  attention 
to  the  papers  before  them  frequently 
relaxed,  or  was  interrupted  by  a  snatch 
of  conversation. 

"He'll  be  back  to-day,"  said  Wilson 
in  one  of  these  pauses. 

"He's  due  here  now,"  Burke  added, 
gloomily. 

"What  are  you  two  worrying  about  ?" 
inquired  Blake.  "Mr.  Norton  said  to  me 
a  few  days  before  he  died:  'My  boy 
Jack  is  going  to  carry  on  the  business. 
And  he'll  take  care  of  the  men  who 
helped  me  to  make  it  a  success.'  What 
more  can  you  ask?" 

The  door  was  flung  open,  as  if  in 
answer  to  his  words.  Young  Jack 
Norton  strode  in  briskly,  followed  by 
three  of  his  college  mates  and  boon 
companions.  If  he  was  saddened  by 
the  loss  of  his  aged  father,  his  manner 
certainly  did  not  betray  it. 

"Mr.  Blake,"  he  said  abruptly,  with- 
out any  preliminary  greeting,  "I  pre- 
sume that  you  have  the  papers  in  that 
traction  loan  that  was  pending  before 
father's  death." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Norton,"  replied  the  grey- 


haired  senior  clerk,  flushing  at  the 
peremptory  tone.  "I  thought  it  best 
to  hold  that  matter  up  until  your  re- 
turn. There  should  be  some  serious 
consultations — " 

"Consultations  ?  Consultations !" 

Jack  Norton  interrupted  angrily. 
"We're  going  to  cut  out  the  consulta- 
tions and  do  some  real  business. 
They're  not  going  to  call  this  an  old- 
fogy  firm  any  more,  now  that  I'm  run- 
ning it.     Step  this  way,  please." 

The  older  man's  face  was  flushed  as 
he  approached  his  young  employer. 

"Here  is  a  month's  salary,  and  you 
can  say  a  permanent  good-bye  to  this 
office.  You  must  be  tired  of  it  by  this 
time,  anyway." 

James  Blake's  countenance  turned 
from  red  to  ash-grey. 

"You  can't  mean,  sir,"  he  faltered, 
"You " 

"Mr.  Wilson/'  called  young  Norton, 
ignoring  Blake's  unfinished  question. 

Wilson's  knees  were  trembling  be- 
neath him  as  he  approached.  Young 
Norton  handed  him  a  month's  salary 
with  the  same  curt  dismissal.  Burke 
had  already  approached  a;,  if  in  sup- 
port of  his  comrades  of  many  years. 

"I  see  that  you're  wise  to  what's 
coming,"  said  young  Norton  with  a 
sneer,  partly  to  cover  his  real  embar- 
rassment. "Here's  a  month's  salary, 
and  a  permanent  ticket  of  leave  for  vou. 
too." 

"Jack  Norton,"  said  Blake  in  a 
husky  voice,  "this  is  an  outrage  that 
your  father  would  not  tolerate,  to  dis- 
charge without  cause  three  old  men 
who " 

"That's  just  the  point,"  interrupted 
young  Norton.  "You  are  three  old 
men.     I'm  bringing  in   some  younger 


89 


90 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


blood.  Percy,  yon  take  Mr.  Blake's 
desk.  Harold,  you  take  Mr.  Wilson's; 
Burke's  job  will  just  about  hold  you, 
Claude,  for  the  present." 

"You  will  find  the  keys  to  every- 
thing in  the  right-hand  upper  drawer," 
said  James  Blake  brokenly. 

Then  with  bowed  head  he  passed  out 
of  the  office  with  his  two  old  comrades. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  big  office 
building  the  three  old  men  stopped 
and  gazed  at  one  another. 

"Boys,"  said  James  Blake,  sorrow- 
fully, "you  were  right  and  I  was 
wrong,  but  don't  blame  old  Mr.  Nor- 
ton. He  expected  his  son  to  treat  us 
as  he  would  have  treated  us.  Don't 
blame  him." 

"We  don't,"  said  Burke ;  "but,  Jim, 
it's  bitter  hard  for  a  man  nearing  sixty 
to  find  a  job." 

"Good-bye,  boys,"  said  Wilson,  sad- 
ly.    "We'll  never  be  together  again." 

The  three  old  men  shook  hands 
silently,  and  went  their  separate  ways. 

Sixteen-year-old  Nora  Blake  was  sit- 
ting quietly,  sewing  with  her  mother, 
in  the  parlor  of  their  little  home.  She 
jumped  up  in  surprise  to  see  her  father 
at  that  unusual  hour.  Ever  since  she 
could  remember,  his  goings  and  com- 
ings had  been  as  regular  as  clock-work. 

"Father !"  she  exclaimed,  "what's 
the  matter?     Are  you  ill?" 

"Yes,  Nora  dear,"  said  her  father 
brokenly,  "I'm  sick  with  a  disease  that 
time  won't  make  any  better.  Old  age 
is  incurable." 

"Jim,  my  Jim,  what  do  you  mean?" 
cried  his  wife  in  terror. 

"Young  Norton  has  returned,  and 
turned  us  all  away;  Burke  and  Wilson 
and  myself.  He  wants  young  blood, 
he  says.     We're  superannuated." 

"Oh,  father,  it  can't  be  true!"  ex- 
claimed Nora.  "Why,  you  belong 
there.  You  are  part  of  it.  You 
helped  to  make  it  all." 

"That's  all  true,  daughter,"  replied 
Blake  despondently,  "but  I've  met  the 
usual  fate  of  the  salaried  man  who 
has  nothing  else  to  depend  on.  He 
gave  me  a  month's  salary  and  let  me 
go.  God  only  knows  what  the  future 
holds." 


He  sank  into  a  chair  in  abject  dis- 
couragement, and  the  words  and 
caresses  of  his  wife  and  daughter  were 
unavailing  to  cheer  him.  Nora's 
pleadings,  and  even  her  smiles,  failed 
to  arouse  him.  His  wife's  outpouring 
of  the  love  and  confidence  of  yean 
only  made  his  burden  seem  the  harder 
to  bear. 

The  following  days  were  ones  of 
hopeless  plodding  from  office  to  office, 
with  timid  requests  for  work  that 
failed  to  carry  conviction  to  their 
hearers.  Blake  even  conquered  his 
pride  so  far  as  to  return,  one  day,  to 
the  office  of  John  Norton  &  Co.,  and 
ask  for  work,  any  kind  of  work,  at  any 
salary.  Jack  Norton  emerged  from 
the  inner  office,  listened  politely,  but, 
unmoved  by  the  broken-hearted  plead- 
ings, dismissed  him  in  two  curt  words : 

"Too  old !" 

A  week  after  this  incident,  Mrs. 
Blake  and  Nora  sat  once  again  sewing 
in  the  parlor  of  their  little  home.  The 
silence  was  punctuated  by  the  uncon- 
scious sighs  of  the  older  woman.  Even 
the  ebullient  spirits  of  youth  had  been 
finally  affected  by  the  problems  which 
seemed  to  pile  up  more  gigantic  every 
day,  and  for  once  in  her  life  optimis- 
tic, pretty  little  Nora  found  no  words 
wherewith  to  console  her  mother. 
They  scarcely  glanced  up  as  the  bowed 
figure  of  James  Blake  entered  the 
room.  His  hours  were  no  longer 
regular,  and  they  knew  by  his  step 
that  he  brought  no  good  news. 

"I'm  not  long  on  French,"  said 
James  Blake  heavily;  "but  the  writer 
who  said :  'Si  la  jeunesse  savait,  si  la 
vieillesse  pouvait — '  if  Youth  but  knew, 
if  Age  could  but  perform,"  said  an  ex- 
ceeding bitter  thing." 

"But  you  must  not  be  bitter,  Jim," 
his  wife  said  gently.  "You  never  have 
been  bitter.    And  who  knows  but " 

"Not  bitter !"  interrupted  James 
Blake  with  vehemence.  "If  Heaven 
ever  puts  the  means  in  my  hands,  I'll 
make  that  young  cub  rue  the  day  he 
ruined  three  old  men!" 

"Father,"  said  Nora,  "you  are  not 
really  old.  You  are  not  sixty  yet. 
You  are  well.     You  are  strong." 

"I   know   it,"   answered   her   father, 


AGE   VS.   YOUTH. 


91 


almost  fiercely.  "I  know  it.  But 
those  who  look  at  my  wrinkled  face  and 
white  hair  and  refuse  me  work,  don't 
know  it.  'How  old  are  you  V  they  ask ; 
and  turn  me  away  as  if  all  men  of  fifty 
odd  years,  no  matter  what  their  lives 
have  been,  were  the  same  age;  as  if 
years  were  a  disease  that  incapacitated 
a  man  at  a  fixed  time  in  his  life,  and 
made  him  as  useless  as  a  worn-out 
truck-horse." 

The  door-bell  tinkled,  and  the  maid, 
who  had  announced  that,  wages  or  no 
wages,  she  would  stay,  entered  with  a 
letter  addressed  to  Mr.  James  Blake. 
He  seized  it  eagerly,  tore  it  open,  and 
read  aloud : 

"James  Blake: 

Your  late  employer,  John  Norton, 
left  you  $20,000  in  his  will.  Kindly 
call  and  see  us  immediately." 

"Watson  &  Bond,'  Att'ys." 

"Thank    God  I"  cried   his   wife,   her 

eyes  brimming  over  with  grateful  tears. 

"I  told  you  so,  papa,  all  along!"  ex- 


claimed Xora,  her  sweet  face  flushing 
with  joy  and  relief. 

"Heaven  has  sent  me  the  means  to 
punish  him,"  said  Blake  almost  sol- 
emnly. 

"Oh,  Jim,  don't  do  it !  Don't  think 
of  it  that  way !"  implored  his  wife. 
"Remember,  it  is  his  father's  money." 

Blake  shook  his  fist  in  the  direction 
of  the  towering  office  buildings  which 
were  visible  from  the  windows  of  the 
little  house. 

"In  another  few  years,  Jack  Nor- 
ton," he  swore,  "it  is  you  who  will 
come  whining  and  cringing  to  me." 

It  was  a  different  James  Blake,  erect 
and  confident,  Avho  was  making  a  pre- 
tence of  being  busy  in  his  brand  new 
offices.  In  reality  he  was  watching  the 
clock,  for  he  expected  some  visitors. 
He  varied  this  occupation  by  inde- 
corously whistling,  and  by  glancing 
proudly  at  the  gilt  lettering  on  the 
ground-glass  door  which  read :  "James 
Blake  &  Co.  Bankers  &  Brokers. 
Public    Utilities."      His   visitors   were 


JACK     NORTON    MEETS    NORA. 


92 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


not  long  in  arriving.  A  few  minutes 
later  the  door  burst  open,  and  Burke 
and  Wilson  fairly  stampeded  into  the 
room.  In  an  instant  they  were  grasp- 
ing him  eagerly  by  the  hand  and  ply- 
ing him  with  a  hundred  questions. 

"Yes,  boys,"  said  Blake  happily, 
after  he  had  told  them  of  his  good 
fortune,  "I — we,  are  starting  in  busi- 
ness together.  No  young  blood  for 
me.  I  want  blood  that  is  tried  and 
true.  A  quarter  of  a  century  of  work 
with  you  is  all  the  recommendation 
that  you  need  with  me.  You  get  your 
old  salaries  and  an  interest  in  the 
profits.     Do  you  accept?" 

The  fervor  of  their  answers  silenced 
their  new  employer  for  an  instant 
while  he  conquered  his  emotion.  Then 
he  lifted  his  hand  and  said: 

"There  is  one  thing  more,  boys,  that 
I  have  to  ask  of  you.  Will  you  swear 
with  me,  if  we  succeed — and  we  will 
succeed — to  help  me  every  day,  every 
hour,  every  minute,  to  put  that  young 
ingrate,  Jack  Norton,  out  of  busi- 
ness ?" 

"We  certainly  will/'  chorused  Burke 
and  Wilson. 

Three  fists  were  shaken  in  emphatic 
unison  in  the  direction  of  Jack  Nor- 
ton's office  across  the  street. 

Five  years  later  and  James  Blake 
was  rich.  The  old  customers  of  John 
Norton  &  Co.,  accustomed  to  deal  with 
the  conservative  senior,  had  found  lit- 
tle to  their  liking  in  the  erratic,  specu- 
lating ways  of  the  younger  man.  One 
by  one  the  accounts  had  come  over  to 
Blake's  firm,  which  was  administered 
with  the  same  sound  conservatism  that 
had  distinguished  John  Norton  &  Co. 
in  years  gone  by.  The  interest  in  the 
profits  that  Blake  had  given  to  Burke 
and  Wilson  amounted  to  a  substantial 
sum,  and  Blake  had  the  affectionate 
regard  of  every  one  of  his  employees. 
Jack  Norton,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
speculated  wildly  in  the  market.  His 
business  was  not  one  of  deliberate 
counsels,  but  of  snap  decisions,  and 
these  had  been  proven  wrong  in  an 
appalling  number  of  cases.  Percy  and 
Harold  were  threatening  to  leave,  and 


Claude  no  longer  treated  him  with 
what  he  considered  befitting  deference. 

It  was  with  a  light  heart  that  Blake 
put  on  his  hat  each  afternoon,  bade  his 
office  force  a  cheerful  good-night,  and 
strode  vigorously  back  to  his  new  and 
handsome  home.  It  was  a  merry  wife, 
and  daughter,  too,  who  welcomed  him 
affectionately  each  night  at  the  gate. 
Nora  was  a  young  lady  now,  and  had 
fulfilled  her  early  promise  of  beauty  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  fairly  bewild- 
ered her  own  father.  He  was  wont  to 
stand  and  contemplate  her  with  flat- 
tering appreciation,  when  she  started 
in  her  evening  wraps  for  a  theatre 
party  or  ball. 

It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  at 
one  of  these  latter  festivities  Jack 
Norton  was  completely  captivated  at 
the  very  first  sight  of  her.  As  she 
entered  the  ball  room  she  seemed 
radiant  with  the  moonlight  from  which 
she  had  just  emerged,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  weeks  Jack's  face  lit  up  with  a 
smile.  Jack  smiling  was  very  differ- 
ent from  Jack  despondent;  and  a  far 
more  attractive  personality.  Before 
she  realized  it  Nora  had  smiled  bright- 
ly in  return.  It  did  not  take  the  enter- 
prising Jack  long  to  induce  his 
enchantress  to  murmur  the  necessary 
formal  introduction,  and  a  moment 
later  they  were  whirling  in  the  mazes 
of  a  dreamy  waltz.  He  hardly  caught 
her  name — if  he  did  it  made  no  im- 
pression, and  Jack  soon  found  that  his 
heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  he  must 
either  have  a  rest  in  a  quiet  corner  or 
succumb  then  and  there  to  heart  fail- 
ure. He  expounded  this  theory  to  the 
laughing  Nora,  and  she  daringly  ac- 
cepted his  invitation  to  accompany  him 
to  a  quiet  nook  in  the  conservatory. 
But  Nora  was  far  too  attractive  not  to 
have  had  some  experience  in  keeping 
too  ardent  young  men  in  their  proper 
place.  In  the  conservatory  she  proved 
so  elusive,  and  yet  so  bewitching,  so 
tantalizing  and  yet  so  sweet,  that  dash- 
ing Jack  Norton  scarcely  knew  how  he 
happened  to  find  himself  on  his  knees 
pouring  out  the  wealth  of  his  love. 
When  an  eloquent  young  man  is  in 
deadly  earnest  he  is  hard  for  a  young 


AGE   VS.  YOUTH. 


93 


THE    HANDSOME    FACE    CAME    NEARER    AND    NEARER. 


girl  to  resist.  Nora  Blake  never  quite 
knew  how  it  was  that  the  eager  eyes 
and  handsome  face  came  nearer  and 
nearer  till  the  all-important  compact 
of  life  was  sealed  by  the  union  of  their 
lips.  It  was  only  on  the  way  home 
that  she  realized  that  she  had  not  even 
caught  the  full  name  of  the  man  who 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  But  he 
was  "her  Jack"  and  he  would  call  to- 
morrow. Then,  she  thought,  with  a 
shiver  of  delight,  she  would  learn  the 
name  she  was  to  bear  for  the  rest  of 
her  life.  The  romance  of  it  appealed 
to   her    Celtic   temperament,    and    she 


cherished  the  secret  which  was  to  be 
theirs  for  a  few  days  more. 

The  hours  seemed  interminable  until 
"her  Jack"  appeared.  When  the  but- 
ler presented  his  card,  she  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  with  a  strange,  delicious 
shyness,  before  reading  it.  The  next 
instant  her  eyes  grew  fixed  with 
horror. 

"Norton!  Jack  Norton !"  she  re- 
peated mechanically.  "The  man 
against  whom  my  father  swore  ven- 
geance! Show  him  in,"  she  added  to 
the  butler  quietly. 

Jack  came  to  her  eagerly  with  out- 


94 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 


JACK    IS    REPULSED. 


stretched  arms,  biit  she  repulsed  him 
with  level  eyes. 

"So  you  are  the  man  who  turned  my 
father  into  the  street,"  she  said  cooly, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eye. 

"Why,  Nora !  Is  it  possible  that 
you  are  the  daughter  of  old  Jim 
Blake?" 

"Mr.  Blake  is  my  father,"  she  an- 
swered, trembling.     "Go !" 

He  gazed  at  her  in  an  agony  of 
entreaty. 

"Go !"  she  said,  pointing  toward  the 
door. 

"Nora!"  he  cried.  "Nora!  I  was 
mad !  I  didn't  know — surely  you  will 
not  hold  that  against  me  after  all  these 
years  !     Think  of  our  happiness,  Nora  ! 


Think- 

"You  must  go,  Jack,"  she  repeated 
more  gently.  "You  must  never  see  me 
again." 

It  was  not  until  the  door  had  closed 
behind  him  that  she  fell  sobbing  into 
a  chair.  When  James  Blake  and  his 
wife  entered  the  room  a  few  minutes 


later  they  found  her  weeping  con- 
vulsively, her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Why,  daughter !  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

In  fragmentary  sentences,  inter- 
rupted by  sobs,  she  told  them  the  story 
of  her  love.  Her  father's  face  grew 
dark  at  the  recital,  but  her  mother 
gathered  her  into  her  arms. 

"You  acted  as  I  would  have  wished 
my  daughter  to  act,"  said  Blake. 

"My  poor,  poor  little  girl,"  soothed 
her  mother. 

Jack  Norton's  face  was  no  longer 
smiling.  For  days  the  market  had  gone 
against  him.  The  firm  of  James  Blake 
&  Co.  had  departed  from  its  usual  con- 
servative caution,  and  seemed  to  fore- 
stall his  every  move.  When  he  bought, 
its  members  sold;  when  he  sold,  they 
bought.  And  theirs  was  now  the  longer 
purse.  In  their  offices  all  was  bustle 
and  excitement.  Blake  was  issuing 
terse,  confident  orders,  and  stepping 
swiftly  from  'phone  to  'phone.  If  his 
sixty  years  had  told  upon  him,  it  was 
not  apparent  in  his  manner  or  voice. 


AGE   VS.   YOUTH. 


95 


There  was  a  note  of  grim  determina- 
tion in  his  commands. 

In  Jack  Norton's  offices  across  the 
street  much  the  same  scene  was  being 
enacted,  but  the  note  of  confidence 
was  lacking.  All  the  members  of  the 
firm  were  standing  anxiously  over  the 
ticker.  Percy  and  Harold  were  openly 
sneering,  and  Claude  was  ineffectually 
imploring  Jack  to  "do  something." 
But  this  "something"  was  of  too  in- 
definite a  nature  to  be  of  much  use  as 
a  practical  suggestion.  Finally  Percy 
and  Harold  put  the  situation  plainly 
before  him.  He  had  no  more  money, 
no  more  collateral  to  put  up  at  the 
banks.  The  ticker  was  rapidly  telling 
a  tale  of  ruin.  In  an  hour  he  would 
be  wiped  off  the  financial  map. 

For  a  moment  Jack  gave  up  in  de- 
spair. Then  an  inspiration  seized  him. 
There  was  one  person  on  earth  who 
could  possibly  save  him,  one  person 
before  whom  he  could  humble  him- 
self— Nora  Blake.  He  siezed  his  hat, 
and  left  his  companions  gaping  with 
wonder  as  he  hurried  down  to  his  wait- 
ing automobile.  A  swift  command  to 
the  chauffeur,  and  the  next  minute 
they  were  speeding  thru  the  streets 
at  a  rate  far  greater  than  the  law 
allows.  Ten  minutes  later  they  had 
drawn  up  in  front  of  James  Blake's 
house,  and  Jack  was  ringing  furiously. 

"Tell  Miss  Bhke  that  I  must  see  her 
at  once,"  he  said  to  the  startled  butler. 

He  gave  her  no  time  for  speech  when 
she  entered  the  parlor. 

"Nora !"  he  cried,  "if  you  ever  loved 
me,  if  those  mad,  sweet  moments 
meant  anything  to  you,  if  that  brief 
glimpse  of  heaven  marked  your  life  as 
it  has  marked  mine,  you  must  help  me 
this  once !" 

"What  has  happened? — what  can  I 
do,  Jack?"  asked  Nora  sadly.  "Father 
is  determined  to  ruin  you." 

"You  know  then  that  he  blocks  every 
move  I  make,  that  lie  scorns  to  guess 
what  I  am  goino;  to  do  and  forestalls 
me,  that  no  cloak  that  I  throw  about 
my  movements  seems  too  thick  for  him 
to  penetrate?  Nora,  I  am  going  to 
him  to  plead  with  him,  to  humble  my- 
self  before   him,    even    as    I    humbled 


him  in  my  raw  egotism  and  silly,  boy- 
ish pride,  five  years  ago.  But  it  will 
be  no  use,  Nora,  I  shall  be  ruined — if 
I  go  alone." 

"You  mean,"  the  girl  said  slowly, 
"that  I  should  go  with  you,  that  I 
should  help  you?" 

A  flush,  of  which  he  could  not 
divine  the  meaning,  had  spread  over 
her  lovely  countenance. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean,  Nora,"  he 
begged.  "You  have  only  a  minute  to 
decide.  In  half  an  hour  I  shall  be  a 
ruined  man.  Will  you  go,  Nora? 
Will  you  save  my  name  ?" 

The  beautiful  young  daughter  of 
James  Blake  hesitated.  A  struggle  of 
conflicting  emotions  was  taking  place 
in  her  loyal,  womanly  heart. 

"Yes,"  said  Nora  suddenly,  "I'll  go. 
The  only  thing  in  the  world  about 
father  that  isn't  splendid  and  noble  is 
that  terrible  spirit  of  revenge.  Wait, 
I'll  get  my  wraps." 

She  seized  a  cloak  from  the  hallway 
rack,  and  flung  it  hastily  about  her 
shoulders.  Jack  helped  her  into  the 
automobile,  and  the  financier's  daugh- 
ter, and  the  man  the  financier  had 
sworn  to  ruin,  the  beautiful  girl  and 
her  hopeless  lover,  sped  rapidly  back 
toward  the  center  of  the  town. 

"I  think  that's  the  final  turn  of  the 
screw,"  James  Blake  was  saying  to  his 
partners.  "I  hear  from  the  floor  of 
the  exchange  that  there  have  been  no 
orders  from  John  Norton  &  Co.  for 
the  last  half  hour  or  more.  I  think 
I've  got  him  this  time." 

To  his  surprise  his  auditors  failed  to 
look  sympathetic. 

"Seems  a  pity  to  wipe  out  the  old 
name,"  Burke  muttered. 

"Yes,  let  up  on  the  poor  kid,"  ven- 
tured Wilson. 

"Well,  you  two  are  a  pretty  pair  of 
milksops!"  exclaimed  Blake.  "Want 
to  let  up  on  a  man  who  ruined  yon  for 
no  reason  but  a  whim  !  Who  made1 
your  hearts  bleed  with  worry  for  your 
families,  made  you  two  tired  old  men 
walk  the  streets  like  a  couple  o^  beg- 
gars !" 

"Seems     to     me,"     observed     Burke 


- 


fI  THINK  THAT'S  THE  FINAL  TURN  OF    THE  SCREW,"  SAID  BLAKE  TO  HIS  PARTNERS. 


AGE   VS.  YOUTH. 


97 


quietly,  "that  we're  doing  pretty  well 
for  our  age." 

"I'm  feeling  pretty  fit  for  my  years, 
too/'  grinned  Wilson. 

"Well,  stay  on  the  job,"  Blake  or- 
dered curtly.     "I'm  not  thru  yet!" 

As  he  spoke,  Jack  Norton,  pale  and 
haggard,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
Blake's  face  darkened  as  he  caught 
eight  of  his  daughter  following  the 
young  man. 

"Mr.  Blake,"  said  Jack,  "I  came  to 
plead  for  mercy.  Unless  you  let  up, 
my  name  is  ruined.  In  another  ten 
minutes  I  shall  be  forced  to  the  wall." 

"Daughter,"  said  Blake  sternly, 
"what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  came,"  answered  Nora  in  her 
clear  young  voice,  "to  join  my  entreat- 
ies to  Jack's.  Father,  it  isn't  right  to 
be  so  vindictive !" 

"Leave  him  instantly,"  ordered 
Blake.  "And  you,  Norton,  go !  You 
ought  not  to  be  in  business,  anyway. 
You're  too  young." 

"Father,"  said  Nora  imploringly, 
"have  mercy.  I  love  him,  love  him 
better  than  my  own  life." 

"Better  than  you  love  your  mother 
and  me?" 

"Father,  dear  father,  save  him;  for 
my  sake,  father,"  she  implored.  "He 
has  asked  your  forgiveness.  Be  gener- 
ous, father,  be  merciful;  merciful  to 
him,  merciful  to  me." 

A  veil  seemed  to  fall  from  the  old 


man's  eyes.  As  he  gazed  at  his 
daughter  the  look  of  smouldering 
hatred  disappeared  from  them,  forever. 
And  in  its  place  came  a  look  of  peace. 
"Wilson,  Burke,"  he  called  in  ring- 
ing tones,  "get  busy  on  those  'phones, 
quick." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  daughter  and 
her  lover. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "I've  just  learned 
a  big  lesson,  and  I  think  that  vou  have, 
too." 

He  held  out  both  his  hands. 
"I   don't   know   how  to   thank  you, 
sir,"  Jack  said,  brokenly.     "It  is  more 
than    I    deserve.      I    thought    that    I 

knew  so  much,  and  now " 

"And  now,"  concluded  Blake  heart- 
ily, "we've  kept  the  money  right  in  the 
family,  and  I've  found  out  as  usual 
that  my  wife  is  right.  Your  father's 
money  ought  not  to  be  used  to  ruin 
his  son." 

Jack  turned  to  Wilson  and  Burke. 
"And  have  I  also  the  forgiveness  of 
my  father's  two  other  old  friends?" 

They  grasped  him  warmly  by  the 
hand. 

"There  is  one  thing  more,  sir !"  Jack 
cried  joyfully. 

"And  that  is  by  far  the  most  im- 
portant," said  Blake,  as  he  joined  the 
two  young  people's  hands. 

The  next  day  the  name  on  the  door 
was  changed. 


J^f5^*^ 


A  December  Dip 


IT  is  not  always  cakes  and  ale  about 
a  motion  picture  studio,  tho  most 
players  prefer  the  pictures  to  the 
dramatic  stage  with  its  monotony. 
Now  and  then  something  unusual  is 
called  for  by  a  photoplay  and  the 
players  do  some  odd  things.  Last  De- 
cember two  companies  did  plays  in 
which  one  of  the  characters  is  required 
to  fall  in  the  water,  and  a  third  com- 
pany made  a  production  in  which  three 
men  were  seen  enjoying  a  bath  in  water 
very  nearly  at  the  freezing  point. 


At  the  other  extreme,  several  burn- 
ings at  the  stake  have  proved  hotter 
than  was  comfortable,  and  at  least  one 
runaway  horse  scene  was  spoiled  by  the 
animal  entering  too  enthusiastically 
into  his  part  and  running  away  in 
earnest. 

Producers  as  a  rule  arc  afraid  of 
animals  in  pictures,  tho  animal  actors 
are  valued  members  of  many  stock 
companies  and  are  used  extensively, 
especially  in  the  western  productions. 


THE  MEDALLION 


Rum  Brewster 


-* 


UHTHERE,  Gianetta,  I  will  do  no 
I  more  today.  Tomorrow  the 
portrait  will  be  finished.  Come 
and  look." 

The  girl  slipped  from  the  high- 
backed  chair,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  am  glad,  David,"  she  said;  "it  is 
tiresome  sitting  so  long  on  that  hard 
seat,  while  you  paint,  and  frown,  and 
say  nothing  at  all  to  me." 

The  painter  smiled  at  the  lovely, 
half -pouting  face  and,  bending,  kist 
the  smooth  brow,  which  scarcely 
reached  his  shoulder. 

"But  see  the  medallion,  sweetheart. 
How  beautiful  it  is !  Are  you  not  re- 
paid for  the  long  hours  of  posing, 
when  you  look  upon  it  ?" 

"It  is,  indeed,  far  more  beautiful 
than  I  am,"  replied  the  girl,  studying 
the  portrait,  where  her  own  fair  face 
smiled  back  at  her.  "Surely,  you 
should  make  your  fortune  if  you  paint 
all  women  so  flatteringly." 

"There  is  no  flattery  in  this.  It  was 
painted  from  my  heart,"  returned 
David,  softly.  "Love  and  joy,  hope 
and  faith,  are  blended  with  the  colors." 

"Love  and  joy,  hope  and  faith,"  re- 
peated Gianetta,  slowly,  "and  faith  is 
best  of  all.  It  is  that  which  makes  us 
one,  our  faith  and  trust.  You  will 
never  doubt  me,  David?" 

"Foolish  question !"  laughed  David, 
"how  should  I  doubt  you,  my  beloved?" 

Together  they  covered  the  picture, 
put  away  paints  and  brushes,  and  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  studio. 

"Tomorrow  will  be  the  last  sitting," 
rejoiced  Gianetta,  as  they  went  down 
the  winding  stairs  and  came  out  upon 
a  narrow  street,  shining  in  the  warm 
sunlight  of  an  Italian  afternoon ; 
"then  there  will  be  time  for  pleasure 


again.  I  long  for  a  sail  on  the  bay. 
See,  how  beautiful  it  is  today !" 

They  paused,  looking  out  over  the 
bay  of  Naples,  with  its  sparkling- 
waves  curling  in  toward  the  crescent- 
like beach.  Here  and  there,  small 
islands  gleamed  like  green  jewels 
dropped  upon  the  water;  white  sails 
drifted  slowly  by ;  the  music  of  guitars 
tinkled  from  a  passing  boat,  and  in 
the  background  Vesuvius  smoked  sul- 
lenly, adding  a  touch  of  grim  majesty 
to  the  scene. 

"Tomorrow  night,  we  will  have  a 
sail  in  the  moonlight,"  promised 
David.  "The  medallion  will  be  fin- 
ished. I  am  certain  it  will  win  first 
place  at  the  exhibition.  I  shall  have 
money  enough  for  our  marriage,  Gia- 
netta." 

The  girl's  face  flushed,  rosily,  and 
the  long  lashes  veiled  the  glow  of  the 
dark  eyes  as  they  walked  the  short  dis- 
tance to  her  home.  Then  she  looked 
happily  up  at  her  lover. 

"Until  tomorrow,"  she  said,  giving 
him  a  tiny  hand  in  farewell. 

It  was  midnight,  but  David  had  not 
slept.  Visions  of  the  medallion,  of 
the  prize  he  so  confidently  hoped  for, 
of  Gianetta,  fair  and  sweet  in  her  wed- 
ding veil,  floated  before  him.  Kising, 
he  took  up  his  guitar. 

"I  will  go  and  play  to  my  love,"  he 
said,  "perhaps  she,  too,  is  wakeful  to- 
night." 

Beneath  Gianetta's  window,  in  the 
starlight,  David  raised  his  hand  to 
strike  the  first  notes,  but  it  dropped 
again,  and  he  stood,  gazing  at  the  open 
window. 

There,  clearly  outlined,  were  two 
figures,  a  woman,  in  flowing  white 
draperies,    and    a    man.     As   he   stood. 


99 


100 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


half-dazed,  unable  to  credit  his  senses, 
the  woman  threw  her  bare  arms  about 
the  dark  figure  and  a  voice,  Gianetta's 
own  voice,  floated  down  to  him. 

"Be  careful;  oh,  be  careful.  Think, 
if  you  were  seen,  the  shame  and  dis- 
grace would  kill  us !  Go,  and  God 
keep  you,  dearest.'7 

A  moment  later,  the  man  descended 
a  trellis  to  the  ground,  passing  close  to 
David,  who  was  crouching  in  a  shadow 
of  the  gate. 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  David 
stumbled  up  the  stairs  again,  and,  un- 
covering his  beloved  portrait,  stood 
looking  upon  the  lovely  face. 

"Love  and  joy,  hope  and  faith,"  he 
murmured,  "I  wove  them  all  with  my 
colors.  I  painted  you  with  my  heart's 
best  blood,  and  you  are  false.  Oh, 
Gianetta,  Gianetta,  my  beloved !" 

Hours  passed,  and  the  painter  still 
gazed  at  the  medallion,  torn  with  the 
anguish  that  only  a  strong  man  knows. 
At  last,  a  light  tap  came  at  the  door, 
and,  as  David  roused  himself  to  an- 
swer, Gianetta  entered.  In  her  fresh 
white  dress  and  gay  ribbons,  a  wide  hat 
shading  her  glossy  hair,  she  looked  like 
a  happy,  innocent  child. 

"Now  for  our  last  sitting !"  she 
cried,  gaily,  "and  then  the  sail  you 
promised  me.  It  is  a  glorious  day, 
David." 

She  stopped  short,  terror-stricken  at 
the  gray,  haggard  face  which  David 
turned  to  her. 

"My  dear  one,"  she  cried,  forgetting 
her  usual  shyness  and  running  to  him, 
"what  is  it?  Have  you  bad  news? 
Are  you  ill  ?     Tell  me  quickly,  David." 

The  painter  gazed  steadily  down 
into  the  upturned  face.  Then,  with  a 
fierce  gesture,  he  dashed  the  medallion 
to  the  floor,  crushing  it  with  his  heel. 

The  girl  shrank  against  the  wall,  her 
face  whiter  than  her  gown,  her  wide, 
wondering  eyes  fixed  upon  the  man's 
passionate,  distorted  face. 

"Last  night,  beneath  your  window, 
I  saw  and  heard,"  said  David,  hoarsely. 
"I  saw  you  embrace  the  guilty  partner 
of  your  sin;  heard  you  talk  of  shame 
and  disgrace.     My  sweetheart,  whom  I 


thought  so  pure  and  innocent  that  she 
knew  not  even  the  meaning  of  sin !" 

He  broke  off,  with  a  loud,  mirthless 
laugh.  "Love  and  joy,  hope  and 
faith,"  he  cried,  "all  gone !  Now  go, 
false  one,  before  I  do  murder." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  continued  her 
wild,  frightened  gaze.  Then  she  lifted 
her  head  proudly,  her  childishness 
dropped  from  her,  and  a  white-faced 
woman  walked  quietly  from  the  room, 
closing  the  door  softly,  as  one  does 
upon  death. 

To  the  gates  of  an  old,  stone  mon- 
astery, standing  in  the  heart  of  Naples, 
yet  seeming  remote  from  the  world, 
came  a  weary,  travel-stained  man,  seek- 
ing alms.  The  gray-garbed  monk  who 
ministered  to  him,  questioned  him  with 
grave  kindliness. 

"I  am  weary  and  wasted  with  sin, 
good  Father,"  confessed  the  wretched 
stranger.  "For  years  I  lay  in  prison 
and,  for  the  honor  of  my  family,  my 
shame  was  hidden  from  the  world. 
One  night  I  escaped,  climbed  to  my 
sister's  room,  and  begged  for  money 
and  a  disguise  that  I  might  fly  from 
Naples.  She  remembered  and  loved 
me  thru  all  the  years  of  my  shame, 
helped  me,  and  I  got  safely  away. 
But  the  years  of  my  prison  life  had 
wasted  my  strength  and  skill,  and  I 
drifted  quickly  into  evil  ways  again. 
Now,  before  I  die,  I  would  ask  forgive- 
ness of  my  aged  parents  and  my  sweet 
sister,  Gianetta." 

The  monk,  who  was  none  other  than 
David,  uttered  a  sharp  cry  and  clutched 
the  beggar's  arm,  eagerly. 

"Gianetta!"  he  exclaimed.  "Tell 
me,  what  night  was  it  that  you  climbed 
to  your  sister's  room?" 

"Three  years  ago  this  very  night," 
answered  the  stranger. 

With  a  groan,  the  monk  sank  upon 
a  bench,  his  whole  body  shaking  con- 
vulsively. At  length,  he  spoke  trem- 
blingly to  the  startled  visitor. 

"Go,  now,  to  your  sister,  and,  as  you 
hope  for  forgiveness,  bear  my  message. 
Tell  her  that  here,  in  this  monastery, 
David  has  learned  his  mistake,  too  late. 
I  have  wronged  her  greatly — God  for- 


THE  STRANGER  APPEARS  AT  THE  MONASTERY. 


THERE,    UNDER   THE   CROSS,   DAVID  BREATHED   HIS    LAST 


(THIS    PHOTO    WAS    TAKEN    IN    THE   SACRED   GARDEN   OF    SANTA   BARBARA   MISSION. 
NO  WOMAN  HAS  EVER  SET  FOOT  IN  THIS  GARDEN.) 


THE   MEDALLIOX. 


103 


give  me — I  cannot  expect  her  pardon, 
but  it  may  be  that  she  will  sometimes 
think  pityingly  of  me  in  my  sorrow 
and  regret." 

As  the  beggar  left  the  gates,  a 
brother  monk  stood  by  David's  side. 

"We  have  long  seen  thy  great  grief, 
David,"  he  said,  gently,  "and  a  task  is 
assigned  that  may  yield  thee  solace. 
An  altarpiece  is  to  be  painted  and  a 
studio  has  been  prepared  in  the  church. 
There,  in  thy  loved  painting,  thy  heart 
will  find  solace." 

David  agreed,  and,  daily,  in  the  lit- 
tle studio,  toiled  faithfully  at  the 
sacred  work.  But  the  painter's 
strength  was  gone.  Day  by  day  he 
grew  weaker,  and  a  look  of  death  came 
upon  his  countenance.  At  times,  his 
mind  seemed  to  wander,  and  the 
monks,  listening  in  awed  silence,  heard 
his  weary  voice  repeating: 

"Love  rnd  joy,  hope  and  faith,  all 
gone !" 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  studio 
had  grown  too  dim  for  further  work, 
and  David,  laying  down  his  brush, 
glanced  toward  the  door  leading  into 
the  church. 

"Gianetta !"     he  exclaimed,   "Am  I 


dreaming?  Is  it  one  of  the  visions 
that  come  to  torment  me,  or  is  it,  in- 
deed, you,  my  beloved?"* 

"It  is  I,  David,"  slie  sobbed,  running 
to  him.  "I  crept  in  from  the  church. 
It  is  wrong  for  me  to  come;  you  are 
wed  to  the  church;  but,  surely,  I  may 
bring  you  my  love  and  forgiveness.  I 
was  wrong,  too.  I  should  have  told 
you  of  my  brother's  shame,  but  1 
feared  I  should  lose  you.  Oh,  my 
David,  we  can  never  meet  again  in 
this  world,  but  sometime,  somewhere, 
we  shall  be  together.  Love  and  joy, 
hope  and  faith,  shall  yet  be  ours." 

She  slipped  away  into  the  shadows, 
and  the  painter  stood  like  one  in  a 
dream,  staring  at  the  open  door. 

Two  monks  found  him,  prone  upon 
the  floor,  gasping  for  breath.  Tender- 
ly they  carried  him  thru  the  church, 
out  into  the  sacred  garden,  where  no 
feet,  save  those  of  holy  men,  had  ever 
trodden.  There,  at  the  foot  of  the  tall 
crucifix,  David  looked  upward,  and 
smiled. 

"Sometime,  somewhere,  my  Gia- 
netta," he  said. 

Then  his  broken  heart  was  still. 


"The  mother  of  the  useful  arts,  is  necessity;  that  of  the  fine  arts,  is  luxury. 
The  former  have  intellect  for  their  father;  the  latter,  genius,  which  itself  is 
a  kind  of  luxury." — Schopenhauer. 


SCENES  FROM  "THE  LOVE  OF   CHRYSANTHEMUM. 


*= 


THE  CYC  Or  CONSCICNCC 


By  L  Case  Russell 


TWICE  Henderson  had  started 
across  the  room  to  the  safe,  and 
twice  returned  to  his  seat  opposite 
the  sick  man.  "Hang  me  for  a  fool," 
he  muttered,  as  he  sat  heavily  down  the 
second  time.  He  scowled  darkly  at 
the  medicine  case  of  "Beady  Remedies" 
on  the  table  at  his  elbow.  From  that 
none  too  reliable  source  he  had  ob- 
tained what  help  h^  could  for  his 
"Boss,"  who  lay  there  on  the  cot,  ramb- 
ling incoherently,  in  the  grip  of  the 
fever. 

His  restless  eye  took  in,  and  cursed, 
every  detail  of  that  lonely  adobe  shack, 
called  by  courtesy,  the  "Office  of  the 
Lost  Lead  Mining  Company,"  up  in  the 
mountains  of  Mexico.  From  the  mine 
maps  on  the  wall,  and  a  half-hearted 
attempt  at  decoration  in  the  shape  of 
several  brace  of  dusty  and  discolored 
mountain-sheep  horns,  his  eye  traveled 
to  the  safe,  and  from  his  own  un- 
touched cot  on  the  far  side  of  the  room, 
back  to  the  one  on  which  lay  the  rest- 
less superintendent,  and  thence  to  the 
safe  again. 

Why  wait — why  weakly  hesitate? 
when  every  moment  was  precious.  His 
mind  rapidly  reviewed  the  events  of  the 
past  year,  from  a  day  which  still  glowed 
in  retrospect,  rose-colored  and  glorious, 
when  Adventure,  with  her  beckoning 
companion,  Fortune,  had  stepped  into 
his  drab  life,  and  he  had  sacrificed 
everything  to  follow  their  lure.  For 
twenty  years  he  had  kept  books  for 
Schmitt  &  Baumgarten,  Watertown's 
foremost  clothiers,  and  his  greatest 
ambition  in  life  had  been  to  "hold  his 
job."  Then  came  the  Day — he  always 
capitalized  it  in  his  thoughts — when 
Bob  Williams,  returning  to  his  native 
town,   had  flooded  his  grey  existence 


with  wild  tales  of  adventure  in  South 
America,  and  capped  them  by  offering 
to  share  with  Henderson  his  discovery 
of  a  rich  vein  of  gold  in  an  abandoned 
mine  near  Quito.  As  soon  as  Bob  felt 
able  to  travel,  he  had  returned  to 
Watertown,  only  to  get  the  fever  out  of 
his  system  and  to  raise  what  money  he 
could  on  his  property.  They  pulled 
out,  Henderson  resigning  his  sinecure, 
and,  after  fixing  things  comfortably 
for  his  mother,  had  taken  with  him 
every   cent   he   could   scrape   together. 

Then  came  Bob's  relapse,  when  they 
had  got  as  far  as  Tucson;  the  shock 
of  his  sudden  death,  and  his  own  de- 
termination to  push  on  alone.  He  had 
the  diagram  of  the  mine  so  carefully 
worked  out  that  a  child  could  locate  it. 
The  expense  of  Bob's  illness  and  death 
he  had  settled  out  of  their  meagre 
funds,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached 
Durango  he  was  forced  to  replenish  his 
store  by  going  back  to  his  old  task- 
master, bookkeeping.  The  Lost  Lead 
Company  had  taken  him  on  gladly,  and 
for  the  last  seven  months  he  had  been 
in  this  jumping  off  place  a  hundred 
miles  from  the  railroad,  isolated  in  the 
mountains,  while  the  golden  vision  that 
had  lured  him  thus  far  grew  daily  less 
hopeful  of  realization.  Mr.  True,  the 
superintendent,  a  quiet,  none  too  genial 
man,  was  the  only  other  white  man 
on  the  place,  the  miners  and  help  be- 
ing, without  exception,  the  despised 
Greasers. 

Suddenly  the  sick  man  started  up 
and  cried  excitedly,  "Vamoose,  you 
Pedro !  You  loco  Greaser,  can't  you 
see  it's  lit  ?     Get  out — you  !" 

Henderson  mechanically  arose,  and 
speaking  gently  to  the  sick  man, 
quieted   him   sufficiently  to  permit   of 


105 


106 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


his  taking  a  spoonful  of  the  medicine 
he  had  prepared  from  the  case  on  the 
table.  As  the  restless  head  gradually 
ceased  its  monotonous  turning  from 
side  to  side,  Henderson,  standing  be- 
side the  cot  with  clenched  hands  and 
tense  nerves,  fought  a  losing  fight  with 
Temptation. 

Over  there  in  the  safe,  labeled  in  his 
own  careful  hand,  were  the  pay  en- 
velopes, due  the  day  after  to-morrow 
for  the  entire  force  of  workmen.  Those 
envelopes  held  enough  to  take  him  out 
of  this  cursed  hole,  to  give  him  a  try 
at  the  mine  in  Ecuador,  and  to  take 
him  home  not  empty-handed,  even  if 
the  lost  vein  proved  a  mirage. 

He  had  done  all  he  could  for  True, 
who  had,  in  his  opinion,  a  mighty  slim 
chance  to  pull  thru.  He  would  fix  it 
so  that  no  blame  would  attach  to  either 
of  them  in  case  the  fever  didn't  get 
"The  Boss" — .  With  a  sudden  decisive 
movement  he  seized  a  sheet  of  the  com- 
pany's paper  lying  on  the  table,  and 
scrawled  in  a  shaky  hand,  with  many 
blots  and  blurs : 

"Lost  Lead  Co.,  Durango,  Mexico. 

"I  am  sick  with  fever,  cannot  pull 
thru.  Henderson  did  his  best  to  help, 
but  has  fallen  down  gulch.  Can't  find 
him — afraid  the  Greasers  have  got  his 
goat.  Can't  explain  to  Mex.  Cook. 
Tried  to  'phone — too  weak.  Pay  roll 
in  the  safe. 

"Thos.  True,  Supt." 

Placing  this  note  so  that  the  medi- 
cine case  hid  it  from  the  sick  man's 
eye,  but  in  full  view  of  any  chance 
caller,  Henderson  squared  his  shoul- 
ders, and  with  a  final  curse,  shut  his 
ear  to  the  small  inner  voice  that  had 
hitherto  guided  his  actions.  He 
crossed  the  room  quickly,  and  wrench- 
ing open  the  safe,  took  out  the  envel- 
opes, tore  them  open,  and  rapidly  and 
methodically  arranged  the  bills  in  neat 
piles  and  the  gold  in  coin  bags. 

He  was  secure  from  interruption — 
the  men  were  all  asleep,  doors  locked, 
shades  down,  and  he  still  had  three 
hours  in  which  to  get  a  start  before 
dawn  would  pierce  the  blackness  with- 
out. 


The  telephone !  He  must  silence 
that  voice  which  would  cry  out  his 
guilt  far  ahead  of  him  as  he  rode. 
Easy  to  cut  the  wires  !  But  the  thought 
of  Mr.  True's  dire  need  arrested  him 
for  one  brief  instant;  yet  he  had  gone 
too  far  to  back  out  now.  Three 
minutes'  quick  work  quieted  that 
menace. 

His  working  hat  and  coat  he  threw 
carelessly  on  a  chair,  and  with  a  last 
glance  at  the  Boss,  now  mercifully 
dozing,  he  stole  quietly  out,  saddled  his 
horse,  muffling  the  hoofs  so  that  no 
trail  might  be  left,  and  that  no  wakeful 
"Mex"  might  hear  a  departing  hoof- 
beat,  and,  with  the  money  in  his  saddle 
bags,  and  his  revolvers  strapped  to  his 
side,  he  rode  noiselessly  away. 

Carefully  picking  his  way  past  the 
outbuildings,  the  bookkeeper  finally 
found  the  path  he  sought.  It  was  a 
dim  and  seldom-used  trail,  which 
climbed  the  mountain  toward  the  pow- 
der house,  and  then  suddenly  dipped 
down  thru  the  pines  and  struck  into  a 
fairly  passable  road.  Altho  unfa- 
miliar, he  chose  this  wav,  because  he 
would  be  unlikely  to  meet  with  travel- 
ers. 

Unused  to  the  saddle,  by  daylight  he 
ached  in  every  limb,  and  his  nerves 
were  ragged  with  the  dangerous  riding, 
where  a  misstep  at  some  points  would 
have  sent  him  to  a  quick  accounting. 
The  weird  effect  of  the  coming  dawn 
did  not  tend  to  calm  him.  Tall,  gaunt 
shapes  would  suddenly  loom  up  in  the 
path  ahead,  seeming  to  point  long  fin- 
gers at  him,  but  when  he  reached  the 
place  where  they  had  stood  sentinel, 
only  the  bare  and  twisted  limbs  of  a 
scrub  oak  were  there.  True's  face  per- 
sisted in  haunting  him,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  his  incessant  call,  "Water,  for 
God's  sake— water!" 

He  knew  that  he  had  put  at  least 
thirty  miles  between  himself  and  the 
mine  before  he  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  dismounting.  His  first  act 
was  to  remove  the  cumbering  blankets 
from  his  horse's  hoofs;  his  next,  first 
assuring  himself  that  no  chance  hunter 
or  wood-gatherer  was  within  sight  of 
the  trail,  to  light  a  cigar  to  steady  his 
nerves.     For  a  moment  he  gazed  down- 


THE  EYE  OF  CONSCIENCE. 


ior 


ward  on  the  dense  forest,  so  far  below 
that  it  appeared  an  irregular  rock  or 
brush.  Somewhere  down  there  this 
trail  hit  the  main  road;  and  his  goal, 
the  railroad,  lay  not  far  beyond  a  cer- 
tain rancho,  kept  by  an  old  Mexican 
and  his  daughter. 

As  he  rode  along,  his  mind  would 
travel  back  to  the  deserted  man  in  the 
lonely  shack,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to 
look  forward  to  the  beckoning  future; 
and  even  the  worn  map  of  the  South 
American  mine,  tho  he  studied  it  care- 
fully as  he  allowed  his  horse  to  have 
his  head,  failed  to  keep  his  mind  from 
conjuring  up  the  interior  of  the  Lost 
Lead  Mine  Office. 

His  imagination  pictured  events 
very  much  as  they  were  actually  occur- 
ing.  The  cook  would  appear  at  the 
usual  hour  for  his  orders,  and  finding 
Henderson  absent,  would  retire  for  a 
time;  for  Henderson's  coat  and  hat, 
which  he  had  left,  would  seem  reassur- 
ing. But  when  a  second  visit  would 
disclose  no  Henderson,  they  would  try 
to  decipher  the  note  on  the  table ;  but, 
being  unable  to  read  English,  would  go 
about  their  work  with  their  customary 
lack  of  enthusiasm. 

Coming  to  a  tempting  spring,  Hen- 
derson again  dismounted  and  allowed 
his  thirsty  horse  to  drink  his  fill.  A 
short  rest  here,  while  he  munched  a 
few  dry  crackers  he  had  stuffed  into 
his  pocket  the  night  before,  and,  after 
assuring  himself  that  his  booty  was 
safe,  and  his  guns  in  good  order,  he 
again  forced  his  tired  horse  on.  By 
four  o'clock  he  should  reach  the  main 
road,  and  the  road-house  would  be  but 
a  short  mile  beyond.  There  he  could 
get  a  satisfying  meal,  and  by  pleading 
haste,  before  another  dawn  he  could 
travel  the  remaining  miles  to  the  rail- 
road, and — liberty.  But  the  urging 
of  the  first  few  hours  had  begun  to 
show  on  his  mount,  and  it  was  nearly 
six  o'clock  before  the  road-house  came 
into  view. 

Smoke  was  curling  invitingly  from 
the  chimney,  and  Henderson  rode  bold- 
ly up  to  the  veranda,  and  swung  off 
with  as  much  ease  as  his  stiff  limbs 
would  allow. 

"Well,   I'm   hanged !"    came  in  un- 


mistakable English  from  within,  and 
before  a  half-formed  impulse  to  draw 
his  gun  had  developed  into  the  act,  a 
man  whom  he  recognized  as  Folsom,  of 
the  Inca  Mining  Company,  several 
miles  to  the  eastward,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  his  hand  outstretched  in 
greeting. 

"Say,  but  I'm  glad  to  see  a  white 
man.  Let's  see — your  name's  Hender- 
son, ain't  it?  Lost  Lead?  I  thought 
so;  you  look  all  in,"  he  said,  at  the 
same  time  pumping  up  and  down  hos- 
pitably the  limp  hand  that  Henderson 
had  perforce  extended. 

"Yes,  I'm  tired.  Sort  of  lost  my 
way — I — "  Henderson  knew  not  what 
to  say  and  was  stammering,  when  the 
other  came  to  his  rescue. 

"You  kin  tell  me  the  story  of  your 
life  after  awhile,"  he  laughed,  heartily. 
"I'll  put  up  the  mustang,  and  we'll  eat 
and  talk  things  over.  Gosh,  I'm  glad 
you  dropped  in.  I've  been  alone  in 
this  durned  shack  two  days.  My  wife 
and  kids  have  gone  over  to  Lupas  for  a 
week." 

Henderson  busied  himself  removing 
the  saddle  bags,  and  mumbled  some- 
thing about  "valuable  ore  specimens  in 
here." 

"I  brought  th'  familv  this  far  ex- 
pectin'  to  take  a  vacation,"  interrupted 
the  host,  "and  fill  up  on  old  Man'el's 
tamales  and  enchiladas.  Yer  see  I  got 
a  crackerj  ack  foreman,  so  I  frequently 
runs  off  for  a  spell.  Well,  I  found  old 
Man'el  havin'  conniption  fits  cause 
Benica — durned  pretty  girl,  his  daugh- 
ter, you  know,  had  run  off  with  a  fel- 
ler from  Pacheco,  so  I  just  says,  says 
I,  'Run  along,  an'  corral  the  signorita, 
an'  I'll  stay  here  and  cook  my  own 
grub';  but,  by — ,  it's  gittin'  kinder 
lonesome,  and  I'm  here  to  tell  yer 
you're  a  welcome  guest.  Go  on  in,  and 
when  I've  fed  the  mustang,  I'll  get  a 
supper  together  what'll  make  you  sit 
up.  I  sure  can  beat  a  Chink  at  his 
own  game." 

Henderson  was  left  for  the  moment, 
the  saddle-bags  on  his  arm,  his  tired 
mind  inventing  and  rejecting  one  after 
another  the  excuses  he  could  make  for 
his  presence  here. 

Suddenly,  in  a  flash  of  inspiration, 


108 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


he  remembered  that  Mr.  True  had 
talked  of  sending  him  to  Gualimape  to 
hire  about  fifteen  more  men,  and  while 
he  had  taken  the  wrong  road  for  that 
purpose,  yet  he  had  already  said  he 
was  lost.  Good !  Funny  he  hadn't 
thought  of  that  before,  and  by  the  time 
Folsom's  cheery  whistle  sounded,  draw- 
ing near,  the  nervous  bookkeeper  had 
lit  a  cigarett-  which  he  had  found  in 
the  litter  of  old  newspapers,  greasy 
cards  and  ashes  that  filled  the  drawer 
of  a  battered  table,  and  seemed  to  be 
quite  at  ease.  This  much  settled  he 
lounged  back  comfortably  in  the  raw- 
hide chair  that  his  host  had  vacated  to 
greet  his  arrival. 

"Say,  you  certainly  can  eat  some," 
observed  Folsom,  later,  after  his  own 
hearty  appetite  had  been  appeased,  and 
he  sat  watching  Henderson.  The  lat- 
ter had  casually  mentioned  his  errand 
to  Gualimape,  and  Folsom,  to  his  re- 
lief, had  appeared  quite  satisfied  with 
his  explanation. 

The  time  was  passing  rapidly,  to- 
bacco having  followed  the  food,  and 
Henderson  was  trying  to  think  how 
best  he  could  break  away,  when  Folsom 
gave  him  an  opening  by  observing,  "I 
don't  mind  bein'  alone  here  daytime, 
but  I'm  sure  glad  fer  company  at 
night." 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  can't  spend  the 
night — I  must  go  soon,"  began  Hen- 
derson, but  Folsom  cut  him  short. 
"Not  stay  over  night !"  exclaimed  Fol- 
som, incredulously.  "Say,  you  must 
be  in  a  tearin'  hurry  fer  them  men," 
and  Henderson's  heart  sank  as  he  real- 
ized that  his  going  was  sure  to  arouse 
suspicion  in  the  mind  of  his  host;  so, 
without  further  argument  he  agreed  to 
remain. 

A  keen  appetite  satisfied,  and  a  good 
pipe  lit,  have  been  the  cause  of  more 
than  one  altered  plan.  Under  these 
influences,  and  because  Folsom  asked 
few  questions  about  the  Lost  Lead, 
Henderson  gradually  became  calmer, 
thinking  that  he  would  get  away  early 
in  the  morning  and  no  one  would  think 
of  following  him.  Why  should  they? 
he  reasoned,  when  the  other  road  was 
fully  twenty  miles  nearer  a  station. 
Nevertheless,  he  found  himself  listen- 


ing, and  his  eyes  would  wander  from 
window  to  window,  while  chance  noises 
made  him  start. 

To  his  relief  Folsom  suggested  re- 
tiring at  an  early  hour. 

"Let's  call  True  up  before  we  turn 
in,  and  tell  him  you're  spendin'  the 
night  with  me,"  he  suggested,  to  Hen- 
derson's dismay. 

"I- no,  don't  do  that!"  he  ex- 
claimed, quickly,  and  in  deference  to 
Folsom's  look  of  surprise  at  the  inten- 
sity of  his  tones,  he  added :  "Mr.  True 

is    sick — that    is,    not    very "    he 

quickly  added,  realizing  that  his  own 
absence  in  that  case  would  look  queer. 
"But  he's — he's  nervous,  very  nervous." 

Folsom  reluctantly  turned  from  the 
telephone,  Henderson  felt  a  black  de- 
sire rise  within  him  to  silence  this  dan- 
gerous voice,  just  as  he  had  silenced 
that  of  the  tell-tale  wire.  For  one 
mad  instant  he  longed  to  feel  the  cold 
trigger  of  his  revolver,  one  quick  pull, 
and  this  stumbling  block  would  be  out 
of  the  way. 

The  impulse  passed,  but  it  left  him 
white  and  shaking;  and  Folsom,  turn- 
ing just  then,  said,  in  his  hearty  way, 
"Say,  you  sure  do  look  tired.  I'm 
good  for  three  hours  yet,  but  you  need 
sleep,  sure's  you're  born."  Then  he 
led  the  way  up  the  creaking  stairs  into 
a  long,  narrow  hall,  lined  with  bed 
rooms,  the  bare,  unfinished  doors  of 
which  were  rudely  numbered. 

"You  turn  in  here,"  said  the  host, 
as  he  led  Henderson  into  "No.  5,"  and 
placed  the  lamp  on  the  table. 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  look  after  the 
horses  and  lock  up.  Buenos  Noches," 
he  added,  as  he  turned  away. 

After  the  clumping  footsteps  had 
reached  the  lower  room,  Henderson 
quickly  locked  the  door  and  pulled 
down  the  shade.  A  hasty  glance 
around  the  room  showed  no  other  open- 
ings, and  the  scant  furnishings,  con- 
sisting of  table,  chair  and  cot,  hid  noth- 
ing. First  placing  the  saddle-bags  on 
the  bed,  he  tossed  his  coat  over  them, 
and  then  took  out  a  time-table  that  he 
had  obtained  before  leaving  the  mine. 
He  studied  this  over  for  a  few  minutes, 
his  nerves  on  edge  in  spite  of  his  men- 
tal assurance  that  everything  was  well. 


\ 


THE  EYE  OF  CONSCIENCE. 


109 


He  heard  Folsom  slam  the  lower  door, 
and  the  sound  of  his  whistle  recede,  as 
the  unsuspecting  host  went  toward  the 
stables.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  felt 
that  he  was  alone  in  the  house.  Now 
was  his  chance  to  hide  the  bills  and 
coins  in  his  clothing.  He  opened  the 
saddle-bags  and  hastily  began  sorting 
the  money.  What  is  that?  A  door 
out  in  the  stable  had  banged  shut,  but 
to  the  guilty  hearer  it  had  sounded  like 
the  report  of  a  gun.  With  a  relieved 
but  sickly  smile,  he  continued  his  work. 
Suddenly  he  started  erect,  jerking  the 
bed-cover  over  the  loose  money,  and, 
with  hand  on  his  revolver  listened  for 
what  sounded  like  someone  moving  in 
the  next  room. 

His  eye  chanced  to  fall  on  a  cheap 
print  hanging  on  the  wall  opposite,  and 
as  he  strained  his  ears  to  catch  again 
the  sound,  his  eye  slowly  traveled  up- 
ward. Again  he  started.  His  face 
grew  ashen  and  his  eyes  dilated,  while 
the  blood  in  his  veins  seemed  to  turn 
to  cold  water.  He  was  looking 
straight  into  an  eye  that  peered  thru 
a  knothole  just  over  the  picture.  For 
a  full  minute  he  stood  motionless,  gaz- 
ing into  the  menacing  orb;  then,  let- 
ting his  glance  fall  away  with  what 
carelessness  he  could  assume,  he 
stepped  back  to  the  bed,  and  with 
trembling  hands,  pretended  to  be  fixing 
the  covers,  while  he  really  was  attempt- 
ing to  hide  the  money.  No  sound  from 
the  next  room — perhaps  "It"  is  gone; 
but  a  quick  glance  above  again  con- 
gealed his  blood  Expressionless,  star- 
ing, the  "Eye"  was  following  his  every 
movement.  With  a  jerk,  Henderson 
raised  his  revolver  and  levelled  at  the 
eye.  It  did  not  flinch,  and  with  a 
smothered  groan  he  realized  that  the 
"other  fellow  had  the  drop."  Could  it 
be  Folsom  ?  Or  was  it  a  spy  set  by 
Folsom?  Or  was  there  a  maniac  in 
there?  or — but  the  last  dread  thought 
he  flung  from  him.  He  could  face  a 
man,  but  a  Thing ! 

He  must  do  something,  and  shaking 
off  the  creeping  horror,  and  still  facing 
the  leering  "Eye,"  he  walked  toward  the 
door,  quietly  turned  the  key  behind  his 
back,  and  bounded  out  into  the  hall. 
The  door  of  "No.  4"  was  open. 


HIDING  THE  MONEY   FROM   THE  GAZE 
OF  THE   LEERING   EYE. 

Henderson  crouched  in  the  dark  hall, 
revolver  cocked,  waiting,  listening.  A 
silence,  that  he  could  almost  feel,  sur- 
rounded him.  With  infinite  caution  he 
approached  the  open  door.  A  faint 
light  from  the  rising  moon  filled  the 
room.  Every  object  was  plainly  dis- 
cernable — cot,  table,  chair.  He  could 
even  see  the  walls  were  hung  with  an 
assortment  of  Chinese  junk  that  pro- 
claimed it  the  abode  of  some  departed 
Cookee.  The  spy  had  gone,  but  where  ? 
Cautiously  he  entered  the  room,  but  it 
was  absolutely  untenanted. 

The  knothole — yes,  there  it  was — a 
faint  light  from  his  lamp  in  the  next 
room,  which  filtered  thru  some  ob- 
struction hanging  directly  over  it.  He 
reached  up  and  jerked  down  the  thing, 
but  it  was  only  a  Chinese  mask,  which 
had  been  turned  face  to  the  wall.  As 
lie  now  looked  into  the  hideous  visage, 
with  its  bulging  eyes,  the  truth  dawned 
upon  him;  this  leering  mask  was  all 
that  had  frightened  him,  and  all  that 
was  needed  to  scorch  his  guilty  soul 


110 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


with  the  white-hot  light  of  self -revela- 
tion. 

The  reaction  was  almost  too  much 
for  him.  With  a  wild  laugh  that 
startled  his  own  ears,  the  erring  book- 
keeper flung  his  accuser  on  the  floor, 
and,  staggering  like  a  drunken  man,  he 
found  his  way  back  to  his  own  room. 

The  door  once  more  locked,  his  over- 
strained nerves  gave  way,  and,  throw- 
ing himself  on  the  bed,  the  contrite 
man's  very  being  was  shaken  by  the 
uncontrollable  sobs  that  wrenched  him, 
until  nature  at  length  asserted  herself, 
and  he  slept. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
Folsom  began  elaborate  directions  as  to 
how  to  reach  Gualimape  by  noon. 
But  Henderson  interrupted  him. 

"Folsom,"  he  said,  earnestly,  but 
sheepishly,  "I  guess  you'll  think  I'm 
ninny,  but,  I  had  a  queer  dream  last 
night,  and  I'm  just  going  to  'phone  the 
mine  before  I  go  on.  Such  a  dream ! 
I  dreamed  Mr.  True  was  sick — fever, 
it  seemed  like — and  those  loco  Greasers 
didn't  know  enough  to  help  him,  and 
he  was  calling  for  me.  So  I  am  going 
to  call  him  up  and  see  if  my  dream  is 
true."  Forthwith  he  went  to  the  tele- 
phone and  seemingly  held  a  conversa- 
tion with  somebody  at  the  mine,  which, 
to  Folsom's  speechless  amazement,  veri- 
fied the  dream  in  every  detail. 

"Say,  don't  that  beat  the  Dutch?" 
exclaimed  the  superintendent  of  the 
Inca,  when  he  had  recovered  breath. 
"I  never'd  a  believed  it  if  you  hadn't 
told  me  the  dream  first.     You  ought  to 


be  one  of  them — you  know,  them  thing- 
amajigs  that  see  ghosts  and  things.  ' 
And  after  a  hasty  but  hearty  farewell 
Henderson  rode  away  on  the  back  trail 
leaving  the  bewildered  Folsom  in  the 
grip  of  the  occult. 

At  daybreak  the  following  day,  the 
Mexican  cook,  ambling  toward  the  cook 
shanty,  beheld  with  amazement  the 
missing  bookkeeper  reeling  in  his  sad- 
dle as  he  rode  up  to  the  office  door. 
With  the  help  of  some  other  eariy 
risers,  Henderson  was  half  lifted  from 
the  saddle,  and,  with  the  precious  sad- 
dle-bags in  his  arms,  he  staggered  into 
the  room,  which  had  persisted  in  ap- 
pearing to  his  mind  as  a  chamber  of 
death,  only  to  find  Mr.  True  looking 
at  him  with  eyes  to  which  reason  and 
health  had  returned.  The  crisis  had 
passed,  and  tho  weak  and  white,  he  was 
on  the  road  to  recovery. 

"Where  the  devil "  began  "The 

Boss,"  and  the  fretful  words  sounded 
like  a  blessing  to  the  relieved  ears  of 
Henderson. 

"I  went  out  for  some  exercise  and  I 
got  lost,"  said  Henderson,  simply. 

The  weak  but  disgusted  snort  with 
which  this  explanation  was  received 
was  lost  on  Henderson.  He  was  con- 
tent. Reproof  was  to  be  expected,  so 
he  busied  himself  in  destroying  the 
note  which  was  still  lying  on  the  table, 
and  in  getting  out  a  fresh  pile  of  pay 
envelopes.  "God  knows,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "I  was  as  near  lost  as  I  hope 
I'll  ever  be  again,  and  I'll  never  forget 
that  terrible,  but  God-sent  Eye  of  Con- 
science." 


+ 

SLEEP, 

GENTLE 

_* 

SLEEP 

By  La  Touchc  Hancock 

* -41 

"D° 


you  know  what  we  are  going 
to  do  to-night,  dear?"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Highboy  to  her 
spouse,  as  they  sat  at  the  breakfast 
table. 

"Sleep !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Highboy, 
laconically,  without  looking  up  from 
his  morning  paper. 

"No,  we  are  going  to  the  skating 
rink." 

Highboy  dropped  his  paper,  and 
stared  at  his  wife  with  quite  as  much 
astonishment  as  if  she  had  declared  she 
was  going  to  the  South  Pole. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  lady,  "you 
must  have  forgotten  we  promised  to 
take  Mrs.  Peppercorn  and  her  daugh- 
ter this  evening,  and " 

"You  can  take  them  to  Patagonia, 
if  you  like,"  emphatically  declared  Mr. 
Highboy,  "but  I'm  not  going.  I 
shall " 

"Go  to  your  club,  I  suppose,  and 
then  come  home  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  with  your  clothes  smelling  of 
tobacco  smoke,  and  your  breath  of  re- 
cently devoured  cloves.  No,  Mr.  High- 
boy, you  must  keep  your  promise." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  said  the  prospec- 
tive martyr  in  such  a  decided  tone  of 
voice  that  convinced  Mrs.  Highboy 
she  must  use  diplomacy  to  secure  the 
escort  of  her  lord  and  master  that 
evening. 

At  this  moment  Clorinda,  the  maid, 
entered  the  room  with  the  morning 
mail. 

"Letter  carrier  wants  four  cents  on 
this  letter,  sir." 

Highboy  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"Give  her  the  change,  my  clear," 
said  he,  "I've  only  got  bills.  With  all 
the  bargain   sales   on   now   you   must 


have  a  multitude  of  pennies  in  your 
pocket." 

Mrs.  Highboy  gave  a  smirk. 

"Keep  the  postman  a  minute.  I'll 
get  the  money,  Clorinda,  and  bring  it 
to  him." 

Mr.  Highboy  gave  a  loud  "Ha !"  as 
his  wife  and  the  maid  left  the  room. 
Eather  startled,  Mrs.  Highboy  looked 
around  in  surprise. 

"It's  all  right,"  chuckled  Highboy. 
"Tell  you  when  you  come  back." 

Having  literally  fished  four  cents 
out  of  her  enormous  hand  satchel,  Mrs. 
Highboy  descended  to  the  kitchen, 
where  she  beheld  a  spectacle  that  as- 
tonished her  not  a  little.  She  caught 
the  letter  carrier  in  the  act  of  kissing 
Clorinda.  The  postman  made  a  rapid 
exit,  while  Clorinda  stood  shamefaced- 
ly before  her  mistress  with  burning 
cheeks. 

"Well !"  was  the  only  word  Mrs. 
Highboy  could  utter. 

"We're  —  we're — keeping  company, 
ma'am." 

Mrs.  Highboy  smiled. 

"And  are  those  your  'company'  man- 
ners ?" 

"Well,  ma'am,"  blushed  Clorinda, 
"he  wouldn't  have  done  it,  if  he  had 
known  company  was  present." 

With  a  "don't  let  it  occur  again"  on 
her  lips  Mrs.  Highboy  gave  the  girl  the 
money,  and  rejoined  her  husband. 

"There!  what  did  I  tell  you?" 
laughed  Mr.  Highboy,  as  soon  as  she 
had  taken  her  seat  at  the  table.  "I 
knew  there  was  something  on  to-night. 
Got  a  Lodge  meeting.  Just  received 
the  notice.  Sent  to  the  wrong  address. 
Must  go.     It's  most  important." 

"Oh,  dear,  dear!"  almost  sobbed  his 
wife.     "There's    always    something    in 


111 


112 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


SHE   CAUGHT  THE  LETTER  CARRIER  KISSING  CLORINDA. 


the  way  of  my  enjoying  myself.  Gen- 
erally it's  business.  Why  can't  you 
sometimes  bring  your  work  home?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  answered  Mr.  High- 
boy soothingly,  "if  you  were  to  see  the 
ledgers,  you  wouldn't  wonder  at  my 
not  being  able  to  carry  them.  I'd 
have  to  hire  an  express  wagon." 

"If  I  were  in  business,  Mr.  High- 
boy, I  should  get  up  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  finish  my  work  before  two  A. 
M.  I  should—  Oh !  what's  the  use  ?" 
and  she  swept  from  the  room  in  a 
tantrum. 

"And  we've  only  been  married  a 
year,"  sighed  Highboy,  as  he  helped 
himself  to  another  rasher  of  bacon. 
"But  I  can't  stand  a  rinking  fete  with 
that  black-silk  Mrs.  Peppercorn.  She 
may  be  amiable  and  good-natured,  but 
it  almost  gives  me  the  hysterics  to  look 
at  her.  It's  rather  a  gruesome  thing 
to  be  the  object  of  her  friendship.     I 


fancy  her  husband  must  have  married 
her  to  make  her  see  the  desirability  of 
women  remaining  old  maids.  As  for  her 
daughter,  maybe  no  woman  can  be  pro- 
nounced actually  ugly,  but  Miss  Pep- 
percorn approaches,  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible, those  dangerous  confines  which 
separate  beauty  from  its  antithesis." 

Fully  satisfied  with  his  philosophic 
soliloquy  Mr.  Highboy  smacked  his 
lips,  and  got  up  from  the  table.  Put- 
ting on  his  coat  and  hat,  he  opened  the 
door,  and  called  out,  "Good-bye,  dear. 
Shall  be  home  about  six."  As  no 
answer  came,  Mr.  Highboy  sighed,  and 
a  moment  later  the  slamming  of  the 
front  door  announced  his  departure. 
Mrs.  Highboy  came  down  presently 
with  red  eyes,  and  a  somewhat  in- 
flamed nose.  Sinking  into  a  chair  she 
moaned,  "It  seems  to  me  that  the  chief 
end  of  a  married  man's  life  is  to  weave 
the  most  terrible  tissue  of  falsehoods 


SLEEP,   GENTLE  SLEEP. 


113 


he  can  think  of.  I  don't  believe  he's 
going  to  the  Lodge  meeting." 

She  rose  and  searched  amongst  the 
letters  on  the  table. 

"Not  there.  No,  Mr.  Highboy  is 
too  experienced  to  be  caught  that  way." 
Then  she  thought  for  a  moment. 
"Well,  if  he  won't  keep  his  promise, 
I'm  determined  he  shan't  go  out  any- 
where else.  But  how  can  I  prevent 
him?"  She  looked  around  the  room. 
What  could  she  do?  Suddenly  her 
eyes  lighted  on  a  medicine  bottle  on 
the  sideboard.  As  she  went  to  take  it 
up  she  knocked  down  a  little  box, 
labelled,  "Sleeping  Powders."  With 
a  cry  of  delight  she  picked  it  up. 

"Just  the  thing.  The  prescription 
the  doctor  gave  me.  He  said  they 
were  perfectly  harmless,  but  would 
send  me  to  sleep,  at  least  for  an  hour. 
Now,  Mr.  Highboy,  you  shall  sleep 
here,  or  my  name  is  not" — she  took 
up  a  decanter — "Mrs.  Highboy"; 
then  she  poured  a  powder  into  the  bot- 
tle.    With  a  giggle  she  left  the  room. 

At  six  o'clock  Mr.  Highboy  returned 
in  the  worst  of  tempers.  A  puddle  in 
a  storm,  a  hen  upon  ducks'  eggs,  a  pea 
on  a  shovel,  were  emblems  of  tran- 
quility compared  with  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  asked 
Mrs.  Highboy,  greeting  him. 

"Everything,"  growled  Highboy. 
"Things  all  gone  wrong.  I — "  And 
Mr.  Highboy  went  into  a  paroxysm  of 
violent  language. 

"My  dear,"  whispered  his  wife,  "if 
you  go  on  like  that  you'll  get  clergy- 
man's sore  throat  from  swearing. 
Calm  yourself.  You  know  Mrs.  Pep- 
percorn  " 

"Mrs.  Peppercorn  be  pulverized !" — 
he  really  said  something  worse — "I'm 
not  going  out  with  that  vixen.  What 
on  earth  her  husband  can  see  in  her  I 
can't  conceive." 

"Powder,  my  love,"  smiled  Mrs. 
Highboy,  quietly.  "She  puts  it  on 
with  a  muff." 

Mr.  Highbo}'  looked  at  his  wife  in 
surprise. 

"You  seem  especially  good  at  re- 
partee this  evening.  Glad  I'm  not  go- 
ing with  you,  I  suppose?" 


"Oh,  no!"  returned  Mrs.  Highboy, 
demurely,  "I'm  accustomed  to  that. 
Still  I  think  you  might  oblige  me  this 
once,  won't  you  ?"  she  added  plaintive- 
ly. "Besides  look  at  the  weather. 
It's  raining  cats  and  dogs." 

"I  won't  look  at  the  weather,"  sput- 
tered Highboy.  "I'd  rather  not.  It 
won't  do  me  any  good." 

"Take  a  glass  of  wine  then,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Highboy  coyly. 

"I  don't  drink,"  retorted  Mr.  High- 
boy. Mrs.  Highboy  almost  burst  out 
laughing  as  she  ran  from  the  room. 

Highboy  sat  down  with  his  head 
between  his  hands. 

"It  is  a  shame,"  said  he  to  himself, 

"but  I  must  go  to-night.    There's " 

then  he  stopped.  "Couldn't  I  get  away 
in  some  manner  without  making  her 
feel  so  bad  about  it?  I  think  that 
thought  requires  the  breaking  of  a 
resolution.     I  will  take  a  drink." 

He  went  to  the  sideboard,  and 
taking  a  glass  raised  the  decanter  to 
pour  the  wine  out,  when  he  suddenly 
stopped.  "Sleeping  Powders !"  he 
gasped.     "Why,  the  very  thing.     Then 

she'll    never    know.     She'll "     He 

almost  jumped  to  the  door,  and  called 
out,  "Clorinda,  bring  up  some  tea." 
Then  he  laughed.  Mrs.  Highboy 
came  in  shortly,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  her  husband  in  a  more  amiable 
mood. 

"Well,"  said  Highboy,  chucking  her 
under  the  chin,  "maybe  after  all  I'll 
go  with  you." 

"You  will?"  gasped  Mrs.  Highboy 
in  surprise. 

"I  said  'maybe,' "  smiled  Highboy. 
"You're  quite  right.  I  have  neglected 
you  lately." 

Here  Clorinda  entered  with  the  tea 
things. 

"Felt     thirsty,"     began      Highboy, 


so- 


"You  didn't  touch  the  wine?" 
anxiously  inquired  his  wife. 

'Wo,  my  love,  I  ordered  up  tea. 
Xow,  dear,  let  me  make  it  this  time 
just  like  I  used  to  on  our  honeymoon." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  nice.  You  haven't 
forgotten.  Just  two  teaspoonfuls,  and 
one  for  the  pot." 


114 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"Forgotten?"  exclaimed  Mr.  High- 
boy,  "1   remember   so   well   that " 

and  he  got  behind  her  out  of  sight, 
and  poured  a  powder  into  the  teapot. 
"Now  wait.  Let  it  cool  for  two  min- 
utes, and  you  will  drink  a  cup  of 
Bohea,  which/'  he  added  to  himself, 
"you  may  regret." 

Then  to  Mrs.  Highboy's  astonish- 
ment her  husband  did  a  very  good 
imitation  of  a  fandango  about  the 
room. 

"Now,  my  pet,"  said  he,  "drink  to 
my  health." 

Mrs.  Highboy  raised  the  cup,  and 
drank  half  of  the  tea  at  a  gulp. 

"Bah!"  spluttered  she,  "that  tea 
has  a  dreadfully  bitter  taste." 

"Must  be  your  mouth,  my  dear," 
snickered  Highboy.  "Drink  the  rest, 
and  see  if  I'm  not  right.  Mine's  all 
right,"  Mr.  Highboy  made  a  feint  of 
drinking  his  tea,  but  not  a  drop  passed 
his  lips.  His  wife  immediately  drank 
the  rest  of  her  tea,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments put  her  hand  to  her  eyes. 


"Oh,     I'm    so     sleepy,"     said    she, 

((T 7} 

"Take  a  snooze,"  suggested  the  old 
reprobate.  "Let  me  assist  you  to  the 
couch." 

Which  he  did,  and  then  looked  at 
her  with  glee,  as  her  eyes  closed. 

"Worked  splendidly.  Now  for  a 
drink,  and  then  away !" 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  drank 
it  with  one  swallow,  and  then  sat  down 
in  a  rocking  chair.  Presently  the 
effects  began  to  show,  and  soon  Mr. 
Highboy  was  in  happy  dreamland  with 
his  wife. 

An  hour  passed,  and  then  a  knock 
came  on  the  door.  As  no  answer  was 
given,  Clorinda  came  in  quietly. 
Looking  at  the  unconscious  forms  of 
her  master  and  mistress,  she  whispered, 
"Fast  asleep !"  and  then  took  the  tea 
things  away  on  a  tray.  "Think  I'll 
have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  snooze  my- 
self," said  she,  as  she  left  the  room. 
Five  minutes  had  not  elapsed  before 
she     suddenly    reappeared    with    her 


THE  BURGLAR  ENTERS  QUIETLY. 


SLEEP,   GENTLE  SLEEP. 


115 


'WHO  S  THAT  MAN  !"    SHE  SCREAMED. 


hands  to  her  head,  crying  out,  "Mrs. 

Highboy,  Mrs.  Highboy,  I'm "  but 

before  she  could  finish  speaking  she 
had  dropped  on  the  floor,  asleep.  That 
made  three. 

For  some  hours  a  deep  silence 
reigned  through  the  room.  The  only 
sounds  to  be  heard  were  heavy  breath- 
ing and  the  chimes  of  a  neighboring 
clock.  As  the  latter  rang  out  the  hour 
of  two  A.  M.  a  soft  creaking  noise  broke 
the  silence.  It  stopped,  and  then  be- 
gan again  till  secretly  and  quietly  a 
head  appeared  at  the  window.  Then 
it  was  suddenly  withdrawn,  only  to 
appear  again.  The  window  frame  was 
raised  noiselessly,  and  a.  man  stepped 
in  cautiously. 

"All  asleep,"  he  whispered,  looking 
around,  and  going  from  one  to  the 
other.  "Dead  asleep,  too.  Here's  a 
chance."  Collecting  in  a  hurry  as 
many  bandy  things  as  he  could  cram 
into  a  small  bag  he  carried,  the 
burglar     approached     the     sideboard, 


which  was  littered  with  silver.  "Here's 
a  haul !"  he  muttered,  as  he  hastily 
pushed  the  ware  into  his  bag.  "And 
here,"  he  added,  taking  up  the  decan- 
ter, and  placing  it  to  his  mouth, 
"here's  a  health  to  all  generous,  hos- 
pitable people."  He  walked  to  the 
window,  tottered,  tried  to  grasp  the 
sash,  and  then  collapsed  heavily  on  the 
floor,  his  bag  crashing  after  him. 

Mrs.  Highboy  stirred,  gave  a  groan, 
rubbed  her  eyes,  and  gasped,  "Where 
am  I  ?     What  has  happened  ?     Did  I 

faint?     Did     I "      Then     looking 

around  she  spied  the  presence  of  her 
husband,  Clorinda,  and  a  strange  man. 
Rushing  to  Mr.  Highboy,  she  shook 
him  to  and  fro,  till  at  last  he  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Wake  up  !    Wake  up  !"  she  shouted. 

"All  rf  !  All  ri' !"  yawned  Highbov. 
"What's  matter?" 

"Matter?"  almost  screamed  his 
wife.     "Who's  that  man?     What's  the 


116 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


trouble  with  Clorinda  ?  What;  oh ! 
what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

Highboy  confessed  he  didn't  quite 
know;  but,  having  a  keener  intellect 
than  his  wife,  it  was  not  long  before 
he  awoke  to  the  real  truth  of  the  situa- 
tion as  well  as  from  the  sleeping  pow- 
ders.    Then  he  laughed. 

"I  see.  Tit  for  tat.  I  put  it  in  the 
tea.  You  put  it  in  the  wine,  and — but 
who's  the  man?  And  what's  this?" 
taking  up  the  bag  from  the  floor,  and 
emptying  it  of  its  contents.  "Oho  !  a 
thief,  and,  oh,  lor ! — serves  him  right. 
I  see.  I  see.  He  must  have  taken  a 
drink,  and  then "  but  Mr.  High- 
boy could  contain  himself  no  longer. 
The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
"Say,  dear,  this  is  a  far  better  enter- 


tainment than  I  should  have  had  at 
the  Lodge.  No,"  he  added,  as  his 
wife  rushed  to  the  window  to  summon 
the  police.  "Let  the  poor  devil  go. 
Pie's  had  his  dose.  So  have  we.  Get 
up,  Clorinda,"  shaking  the  girl.  "Get 
up,  and  go  to  bed.  Yes,  you're  all 
right.  Don't  be  alarmed.  There — 
there !"  and  he  soothed  her  out  of  the 
room.  "Now  let  the  man  have  his 
sleep  out.     I  daresay  he  wants  it." 

And  later  on,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Highboy-  were  seated  in  loving  prox- 
imity side  by  side,  Mrs.  Highboy  said 
with  a  smile: 

"They  say  it  takes  a  woman  to  im- 
agine gratuitous  deviltry." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  acquiesced  Mr. 
Highboy,  "and  a  man  to  carry  it  out." 


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SCENE  FROM  "CIRCLE  C.  RANCH'S  WEDDING  PRESENT." 


ANNOUNCEMENTS— Continued 


ELAINE,  by  Montanye  Perry,  from  the  poem  by  Tennyson, 
which  does  the  great  poet  no  injustice,  because  it  is  charmingly 
told — in  fact,  this  story  is  a  prose  poem. 

GETTING  SISTER  MARRIED,  by  E.  M.  Laroch.  This  is 
done  in  the  form  of  a  comedetta,  and  it  will  not  only  be  useful 
in  driving  away  the  blues,  but  for  amateur  theatricals. 

IN  THE  HOT  LANDS,  by  Marie  Coolidge  Rask,  an  exciting 
story  of  ranch  life  in  Texas. 

ACROSS  THE  MEXICAN  BORDER,  by  Aurelius  Heltberg, 
which  tells  of  life  and  love  in  Mexico. 

TONY  THE  GREASER,  by  L.  Case  Russell,  a  tale  from  San 
Antonio,  full  of  local  color  and  action. 

TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES,  by  Montanve  Perry,  after  the  story 
of  Dickens.  This  story  includes  the  tnree  parts  complete,  and 
it  is  done  in  this  popular  writer's  best  style. 

THOMAS  ABECKET,  by  Luliette  Bryant,  a  story  from  his- 
tory, and  well  told. 

DIPLOMACY,  by  Luke  Sharp,  which  is  one  of  the  funniest 
stories  ever  told  by  this  "funny"  writer. 

THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  COYOTTE  COUNTY,  by  Ken- 
neth S.  Clarke,  which  is  another  humorous  story  by  an  equally 
famous  writer. 

A  PLEASANT  AFTERNOON,  by  Lizzie  Pinson,  which  is  as 
instructive  as  it  is  entertaining. 

These  stories  have  already  been  written  from  photoplay  scen- 
arios, and  all  will  be  profusely  illustrated  with  beauti- 
ful half-tone  engravings.  Besides  these,  we  have  received  many 
other  subjects  which  have  not  yet  been  reduced  to  story  form; 
and  still  many  others  have  been  promised,  some  of  which  will 
appear  in  the  May  number  before  they  are  seen  in  the  Picture 
Houses.  The  May  number  will  also  contain  a  poem  written 
expressly  for  this  magazine  by  the  celebrated  American  poet 
WILL  CARLETON,  entitled  "The  Two  Lessons"  (At  the  Mov- 
ing Picture  Hall),  with  portrait  of  the  author. 

Also,  the  usual  features,  including  our  Gallery  of  Leading  Pic- 
ture Players,  Musings  of  the  Photoplay  Philosopher,  poems, 
editorials,  &c. 

Readers  desiring  to  get  the  May  number  are  advised  to  order 
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THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE,  26  COURT  STREET,  BROOKLYN,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


The  Count  and  tho  Cowboys 


By  5.  N.  Rye 


afVUELS,"    said   the   old   foreman, 

\J  reflectively,  "was  never  a  flour- 
ishing institution  in  these  here 
parts.  The  pervailin'  custom  bein' 
to  draw  ahead  of  the  other  feller.  As 
for  waitin'  till  the  next  day,  and 
meetin'  by  arrangement,  it  always 
seemed  a  sinful  waste  of  time,  besides 
takin'  the  edge  off  whatever  satisfaction 
you   got   out   o'   perforatin'   the   other 

man.     However ";  he    cleared    his 

throat  and  then  told  a  tale. 

Sometime  back  in  the  days  before 
this  "New  West"  was  thought  of,  while 
the  punchers  still  packed  their  artil- 
lery, and  some  time  after  dislikin'  a 
man's  face  was  no  longer  considered 
justification  for  homicide,  a  bunch  of 
us  sets  on  the  gallery  of  Mac's  Palace 
Saloon  to  light  down  there  and  irrigate, 
punctuatin'  our  drinks  with  news 
from  the  outside. 

Residin'  in  what  book-writers  calls 
a  "Picturesque  Locality,"  we're  some 
used  to  all  kinds  of  freaks  in  the  way 
of  sightseers,  but  what  climbs  from 
the  stage  to-day  sure  takes  our  breath. 

As  he  gets  down,  he  seems  to  con- 
sist mostly  of  legs,  but  as  he  further 
unwinds  himself,  we  realizes  that  he's 
the  longest  thing  that  ever  landed  here. 
On  top  of  this  six  feet  of  queerness  is 
a  hat  'bout  a  foot  high,  but  the  face 
on  this  jasper 

Say,  he  has  a  mustache  and  some 
whiskers,  somethin'  like  the  Colonel's, 
but  trimmed  shorter,  and  in  one  eye 
is  stuck  a  little  round  window,  with 
a  string  to  it. 

Before  we  gets  over  our  surprise 
long  enough  to  laugh  at  him  the  stage 
pulls  out,  and  we  realize  that  It's  goin' 
to  remain  here.  Whereupon  we 
escorts  him   into  the   bar,   and  turns 


him  over  to  Mac,  meanwhile  debatin' 
among  ourselves  what  he  is. 

Stump  Carney  held  out  that  he's 
some  kind  of  a  greaser,  but  he  looks 
too  clean,  and  we  gives  up  in  despair, 
waitin'  for  Mac  to  set  our  minds  at 
rest.  The  unknown  produces  a  letter, 
which  Mac  reads,  and  then  begins  to 
tell  how  this  is  a  friend  of  an  old 
friend  of  his,  a  Frencher  named  Jack 
Dupont,  and  that  this  is  the  Count 
Catelene,  which  has  come  to  look  over 
minin'  properties.  Mac  interjuces  the 
gent  to  us,  him  eyein'  us  and  our  guns 
with  some  apprehension. 

I  happens  to  be  the  first  to  be  pre- 
sented to  the  Count,  and  when  he 
sticks  his  hand  up  in  the  air  for  me  to 
grab  at,  I  thinks  that  he's  tryin'  to 
escape  shakin'  with  me.  But  after  I 
notes  that  he  looks  right  affable,  I 
reaches  up  and  captures  his  paw.  He 
disengages  it  after  a  minute,  throws 
his  arms  around  my  neck,  and  durnd 
if  he  don't  kiss  me,  first  on  one  side 
of  the  face ;  and  then  on  the  other ! 
He  sure  did! 

I  thinks  that  he's  sure  loco,  but  he 
does  the  same  to  the  other  boys  windin' 
up  with  Mac.  It's  plumb  scandalous, 
but  he  does  it.  The  boys  are  some 
sore,  thinkin'  that  this  pilgrim  is 
makin'  fun  of  'em,  and  Mac  takes  him 
upstairs  quick,  and  out  of  harms  way, 
while  we  discusses  what  oughter  be 
done  to  a  man  what  kisses  a  healthy 
and  respectable  cowman. 

Stump  Carney  is  for  immediate 
execution,  him  bein'  sore  because  the 
Count  ain't  no  Greaser,  which  Stump 
took  him  for  at  first,  but  we  knows 
that  Stump  ain't  responsible,  and 
vetos  his  motion. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Count  comes 


118 


THE  COUNT  AND  THE  COWBOYS. 


119 


THE    COUNT    IS    ESCORTED   TO    THE    BAR. 


back  to  the  bar-room,  and  when  we 
see  that  he  ain't  bent  on  no  more  kiss- 
in'  sprees,  we  treats  him  right  sociable, 
askin'  him  where  he  comes  from  an' 
all  that. 

The  Count  narrates  that  he  comes 
from  "that  dear  France,"  and  when  we 
asks  him  what  kind  of  a  country  that 
might  be,  he  starts  to  tell  about  these 
here  duels  which  seems  to  be  the  chief 
amusement  of  the  folks  over  there. 

"In  my  country,"  says  the  Count, 
"you  receive  the  insult,  you  slap  the 
face,  you  are  challenge.  In  the  morn- 
ing, you  fight  the  duel.  With  the 
sword  you  fight  it.  You  kill  the  man 
what  insult  you,  honor  is  satisfy ! 
Ah-h-h !" 

"Over  here,"  said  Stump,  some  dis- 
gusted, "one  gent  insults  another,  they 
both  pulls  guns,  and  we  endeavors  to 
give  them  what  needs  it  a  Christian 
funeral." 

The  Count  looks  some  pained  at  our 
hasty  way  of  doin'  things,  and  goes  on 
to  show  the  right  way  of  usin'  them 
swords  what  is  so  popular  with  the 
Frenchers.  We  don't  miss  Stump,  no 
one  seein'  him  slip  out  of  the  room,  but 


when  the  Count  has  finished  showin'  the 
right  way  of  settlin'  affairs  with  the 
sword,  in  comes  Stump ! 

The  little  devil  has  got  the  Count's 
long  coat,  which  is  fur-lined,  also  his 
hat  and  the  window  which  the  Count 
wears  in  his  eye.  Stump  comes  across 
the  room,  grabs  one  of  the  boys,  and 
kisses  him,  just  like  the  Count  done, 
then  starts  around  the  room,  us 
a-laughin'  like  we  was  goin'  to  choke, 
and  the  Count  kinder  chokin'  too,  but 
we  see  he  wasn't  laughin'  none. 

Stump  comes  up  to  the  Count, 
makes  a  bow  and  looks  at  him  impu- 
dent, and  then  the  Count  gets  his 
breath. 

"Vile  herder  of  cows!"  yells  the 
Count,  makin'  a  grab  for  Stump. 
"Wretched  keeper  of  cattle,  for  this  I 
shall  kill  you,"  he  shrieks,  real  mad 
like,  and  makin'  wild  motions  with  his 
hands.  Stump,  hearin'  that  he's  to  be 
killed,  reaches  for  his  gun,  but  I  stops 
him,  seein'  that  the  Count  ain't  packin' 
no  gun,  and  not  wantin'  Stump  to 
murder  him. 

We  calms  the  Count  down  a  bit,  and 
then  he  'lows  that  Stump  must  meet 


12-0 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


him  on  the  field  of  honor  (yes,  sir, 
that's  what  he  calls  it,  meanin'  the 
corral,  I  reckon)  in  the  morning  and 
he  gives  Stump  a  card,  which  reads 
"Count  Alphonse  Louis  Francis  Cata- 
lene,"  and  he  demands  that  Stump 
give  his  card.  Stump  ain't  got  no 
card,  but  he  picks  up  one  from  the 
faro  table,  and  seein'  all  them  names 
on  the  Count's  card  he  writes  on  hisn: 
"Alkili  Two-gun  Broncho-busting 
Pete." 

The  Count  takes  the  card  and  goes 
out,  sayin'  somethin'  about  gettin'  him 
a  second,  while  we  remonstrates  with 
Stump  for  wantin'  to  kill  anyone  so 
harmless.  Stump  'lows  that  he  ain't 
goin  to  kill  the  Count,  only  aimin'  to 
scare  him  some,  and  just  then  Mac 
comes  in,  laughin'  fit  to  bust. 

"Boys,"  says  he,  "what  did  youse  do 
to  this  Count  feller?"  and  he  narrates 
that  the  Count  has  put  it  on  him  to 
make  all  the  arrangements  for  the  duel 
what's  to  be  fit  to-morrow.  "You 
bein'  the  challenged  party,  you  has  the 
choice  of  weapons,"  he  says  to  Stump, 
"and  I  sure  advises  that  you  takes 
guns,  for  there  ain't  no  swords  in  this 


here  town,  and  we  sure  don't  aim  to 
get  none  for  this." 

"Guns  for  mine,"  says  Stump,  "and 
here's  my  answer,"  sayin'  which  he 
grabs  some  paper  and  writes  "Bein' 
the  challenged  party  choose  guns,  but 
I  got  six  duels  ahead  of  yours.  You 
will  be  the  seventh  what  I  kill  to- 
morrow." Mac  takes  the  letter  and 
goes  out,  remarkin'  that  he  don't  just 
think  the  Count  will  quit  for  th|it 
bluff,  and  addin'  that  Stump -bein' 
small  will  make  him  easy  to  bury,  but 
Stump  is  so  busy  laughin'  that  he 
don't  hear  it. 

Then  Stump  lays  out  his  plans,  tell- 
in'  us  that  he  wants  six  of  us  to  hejp 
out  in  the  duel,  and  we  sees  his  plans. 
So  many  of  us  volunteers  to  fight  and 
git  "killed"  that  we  has  to  draw  cards 
for  it,  but  finally  the  victims  is  se- 
lected, and  we  waits  anxious  for  the 
next  morning. 

Sure  enough  the  Count  is  there,  and 
he  don't  seem  scared  none,  not  even 
after  Stump  and  Andy  Bell  exchanges 
shots,  an'  Andy  dies  in  dreadful 
agonies.  The  next  duelist  what  Stump 
faces  never  gets  a  chance  to  fire,  Stump 


THE  COUNT  RECEIVES  A   CHALLENGE. 


TEE  COUNT  AND  THE  COWBOYS. 


121 


THE   FIELD    OF    HONOR. 


dischargin'  his  gun  without  turnin' 
around.  The  Count  turns  some  pale 
at  this  and  watches  real  interested 
while  Stump  kills  another  by  shootin' 
backwards  with  the  gun  under  his  arm. 
He  kills  another,  and  then  lookin' 
bored,  says  that  this  is  too  slow  for 
him,  an  requests  that  the  next  two 
victims  stand  up  at  the  same  time. 
The  two  tremblin'  victims  steps  out, 
and  one  shot  settles  them  both,  and 
we  looks  around  to  see  how  the  Count 
takes  this  latest  evidence  of  Stump's 
good  shootin'. 

However,  we  all  get  some  disap- 
pointed, for  we  was  never  able  to  get 
the  Count's  real  opinion.  When  we 
turns,  all  that  we  can  see  of  the  Count 
is  a  cloud  of  dust,  pursuin'  the  mornin' 
stage,  which  has  just  passed  thru.    The 


Count's  coat,  likewise  his  hat  and  bag- 
gage, is  still  with  us,  so  that  there  is 
no  reason  to  pursue  him  to  collect 
Mac's  bill. 

A  puncher  what  rode  in  that  after- 
noon tells  us  how  he  meets  the  stage  on 
the  road  and  says  that,  turnin'  around 
to  look  back  at  the  driver,  he  sees  a 
jasper,  somewhat  answerin'  to  the 
Count's  description,  hangin'  to  the 
back  springs,  but  that  the  stage  was 
out  of  hearin'  and  his  hoss  was  too 
tired  to  ketch  up.  Besides,  he  says 
that  after  two  looks  at  the  Count,  he 
convinces  himself  that  what  he  sees  is 
like  them  rattlers  what  comes  after  a 
big  spree,  and  that  he  just  says  "He-e, 
there  ain't  no  such  animal,"  and 
rides  on. 


"The  invention  of  photography  has  revolutionized  art  as  railroads  have 
revolutionized  industry." — Alfred  Stevens. 


The  Influence  of  the  Picture  Play 


By  Harold  Aurelius  Heirberg 


ITH  the  grow- 
ing apprecia- 
tion of  Motion 
Pictures  a  s 
the  most 
compelling 
and  forceful  in- 
fluence of  the 
age,  the  person 
is  narrow- 
minded  and  bigoted  who  fails  to  rec- 
ognize their  present  uplift  and  tre- 
mendous value  as  an  educational 
adjunct.  In  the  light  of  reason  and 
intelligence  there  is  no  height  they  may 
not  reach;  and,  as  the  masses  of  the 
people  realize  more  and  more  that  this 
gigantic  power  for  good  is  vested  in 
them,  the  demand,  already  rising  in  its 
ideals,  will  continue  to  mount  upward. 
The  people  that  walked  in  darkness 
have  seen  a  great  light.  The  greatest 
achievements  of  the  world  were  made 
the  subject  of  ridicule  and  contumely 
in  the  days  of  their  beginning.  There 
was  a  time,  in  the  earlier  days  of 
Picture  Plays,  when  they  were  generally 
pronounced  a  curse.  That  time  has 
passed.  To-clay,  at  times,  large  audi- 
ences, wiping  tears  from  their  eyes, 
pour  forth  from  the  Picture  Theatres 
with  the  overwhelming'  sense  of  having 


spent  a  pleasureable  and  profitable  hour 
with  the  great  historic  characters 
and  even  with  the  Master  in  the  Holy 
Land.  No  representation  in  the  world 
could  be  more  artistic,  more  reverent, 
than  those  wonderfully  realistic  scenes 
on  the  shores  of  Galilee,  with  their  rich, 
oriental  coloring,  their  pathos  and  sub- 
limity. 

It  has  been  said  that  success  in  this 
world  can  only  be  measured  by  the 
evil  which  has  been  met  and  overcome. 
All  evil  is  but  goodness  perverted.  The 
superstitions  which,  in  former  days, 
prompted  men  to  turn  from  that  which 
was  new  and  untried  have  given  place 
to  scientific  analysis.  Constructive 
forces  and  possibilities  are  now  watched 
for  with  the  greatest  intensity.  The 
result  is  an  education  and  inspiration 
which  has  already  girdled  the  earth. 
Only  the  narrow  conservatism  having 
its  origin  in  the  middle  ages  refuses 
to  admit  that  which  the  broad  Christi- 
anity of  Social  Service  universally 
recognizes. 

That  thinking  minds  of  the  day 
have  been  right  in  their  judgment  of 
the  Picture  Play  as  an  educational 
factor  is  evidenced  by  marked  changes 
in  the  class  of  plays  presented  at 
Picture  Houses.  Few,  if  any,  of  the 
old  plays  are  being  shown  this  year. 
The  object  of  all  managers  is  to  please 
their  patrons.  They  will  -give  the  pub- 
lic what  it  asks  for.  The  present  de- 
mand is  an  intelligent  one  and  no 
expense  is  being  spared  to  grant  it. 
Mute,  yet  powerfully  eloquent  wit- 
nesses of  .this  fact  are  the  plays  now 
seen  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  in 
churches,  Christian  Association  rooms, 
lecture  halls,  social  settlements,  re- 
cruiting offices,  theatres  and  even  in 


122 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  THE  MOTION  PICTURE  PLAY.        123 


the  public  schools.  The  development 
of  picture  education  has  brought  scien- 
tific, historical,  geographical,  indus- 
trial, pathological  and  all  manner  of 
ancient  and  modern  knowledge,  hither- 
to attainable  only  for  the  wealthy  or 
their  beneficiaries,  within  the  grasp  of 
all. 

During  the  past  year  the  sum  of 
$75,000,000  was  spent  on  Moving 
Picture  shows.  It  has  been  money  well 
expended.  If  there  are  those  who  cling 
to  the  thought  of  recorded  instances 
where  the  direct  result  has  been  evil, 
they  wou^d  do  well  to  remember  that 
evil  has  resulted  to  a  greater  or  less 


degree  from  every  great  element  for 
good  that  has  ever  been  known.  They 
should  also  remember  that  the  recent 
law  which  prohibits  children  attending 
plays  unless  accompanied  by  a  parent 
or  guardian  was  made  necessary,  not 
because  of  harmful  pictures,  but  to  pro- 
tect innocent  children  from  immoral 
and  unprincipled  men  and  women  who 
contrive  to  elude  the  most  vigilant 
manager. 

Nothing  depicts  things  more  clearly 
than  modern  Motion  Pictures.  The 
child-mind  is  formative  and  impres- 
sionable. Adults  are  merely  grown 
children.  In  the  shaping  of  character 
no  greater  force  has  ever  been  known 
than  that  of  actual,  living  example. 
This  the  Photoplay  sets  forth  as  no 
book,  painting  or  verbal  precept  could 
ever  do. 

Censorship  of  plays  as  at  present 
conducted   should  be  most  reassuring 


for  the  doubtful  and  faint-hearted. 
The  position  of  the  censors  is  difficult 
and  responsible  but  the  work  has  been 
made  far  easier  of  accomplishment  than 
was  at  first  imagined.  This  has  been 
due  to  the  splendid  cooperation  of  the 
film  manufacturers,  whose  vast  expen- 
ditures, in  order  to  give  to  the  public 
the  high-class  pictures  of  reality  and 


actuality  which  are  demanded,  are  al- 
most beyond  belief. 

In  no  locality  is  the  educational 
value  of  the  film  more  noticeable  than 
in  the  poorer  districts.  To  the  great 
army  of  wage  earners  the  pictures  that 
tell  of  life  and  action  have  proved  a 
veritable  god-send.  They,  the  toilers 
who  make  the  world  go  round,  who 
know  so  well  the  monotonous  story  of 
disappointed  hopes  and  ambitions  un- 
realized, are  finding  new  joy,  hope  and 
inspiration.  The  poor  enjoy  travel  but 
their  way  leads  only  to  the  door  of  the 
factory.  They  long  for  the  country  in 
the  summer,  but  the  country  is  not  for 
them.  They  have  no  time,  no  place, 
no  inclination,  perhaps  not  the  ability 
to  read.  Theatres  and  vaudeville  shows 
are  too  expensive  and  continue  too  late. 
The  toiler  must  rise  early.  He  cannot 
belong  to  the  travel  or  sketch  club. 
Night  school  is  a  burden  which  tired 
nature  rebels  against  after  a  day  spent 
in  mill  or  factory.  A  trip  up  the 
"Rhine  at  a  Moving  Picture  show  is  like 
a  week  in  the  country  to  the  homesick, 
discouraged  German.  The  workings  of 
a  great  manuf actury  are  interesting  and 
more  instructive  than  books  to  the  am- 
bitious youth  or  workman  who  longs 


124 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


to  become  a  skilled  mechanic.  So  the 
poor  go  to  the  Picture  Theatres  where 
the  broad  vista  of  knowledge  spread  out 
before  them  is  unlimited  and  where 
tuition  fees  and  interpreters  are  un- 
necessary. 

A  splendid  illustration  of  pictorial 
educational  benefits  is  that  of  the  small 
boy,  brought  up  in  poor  surroundings, 
having  little  association  with  English- 
speaking  people,  no  opportunity  for 
reading  and  little  acquaintance  with  the 
streets.     But  he  could  tell  how  steel 


rails  were  made.  He  knew  about  elec- 
trical inventions  and  aeronautics.  He 
understood  life  on  the  range  and  had 
views  upon  Chinese  architecture.  He 
was  conversant  as  to  the  mechanism  of 
mills  and  mines.  He  described  various 
scenes  from  Dickens'  novels,  the  French 
Revolution,  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
naval  welfare  and  Sacred  History,  in 
a  manner  most  vivid.  He  had  seen 
good  pictures,  carried  away  lasting 
mental  impressions  and  acquired  an 
education  far  broader  and  more  com- 
prehensive than  that  which  he  is  re- 
ceiving at  the  present  time  in  a  grade 
school  where  the  teacher  is  incompetent 
and  there  is  nothing  to  make  lessons 
interesting  for  an  active-minded  and 
imaginative  child. 

The  world  grows  better  as  it  in- 
creases in  activity.  It  has  no  time  to 
stop  to  sympathize  with  those  who 
would  condemn  that  which,  at  basis, 
is  so  essentially  good.  With  evil  so 
well  overcome  that  success  is  im- 
measurable and  with  influences  so  very 
far  reaching,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
the  life  and  character  of  the  Nation 
should  derive  its  power  and  impetus 
from  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  Moving 
Picture  Reality, 


"The  enemy  of  art  is  the  enemy  of  nature.  Art  is  nothing  but  the  highest 
sagacity  and  exertion  of  human  nature ;  and  what  nature  will  he  honor  who 
honors  not  the  human." — Lavater. 


"Nature  is  not  at  variance  with  art,  nor  art  with  nature;  they  being  both 
the  servants  of  his  providence.  Art  is  the  perfection  of  nature.  Were  the 
world  now  as  it  was  the  sixth  day,  there  were  yet  a  chaos.  Nature  hath  made 
one  world,  and  art  another.  In  brief,  all  things  are  artificial;  for  nature  is  the 
art  of  God."— Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Religio  Medici.     Sec.  16. 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  artists  in  this  world;  those  that  work  because  the 
spirit  is  in  them,  and  they  cannot  be  silent  if  they  would,  and  those  that  speak 
from  a  conscientious  desire  to  make  apparent  to  others  the  beauty  that  has 
awakened  their  own  admiration."-  A.  K.  Green,  The  Sword  of  Damocles. 
Bk.  I,  Ch.  V. 


—A 


^[ditorial 


►* — 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  AS  A  MORALIZER. 

"Every  good  picture  is  the  best  of  sermons  and  lectures ;  the  sense 
informs  the  soul." — Rev.  Sydney  Smith. 

In  tracing  the  origin  of  the  drama  we  must  look  to  the 
religious  ceremonies  of  ancient  nations,  and  in  Greece  it  retained 
to  the  last  the  religious  element  to  which  it  owed  its  origin. 
Not  only  was  the  play-house  a  place  of  amusement  and  worship, 
but  it  was  to  the  Greeks  almost  as  a  home,  for  the  entire 
family  to  attend,  just  as  the  moving  picture  theaters  are  to-day, 
and  the  wealthy  classes  endowed  them  as  lavishly  as  our  present 
millionaires  endow  colleges  and  libraries. 

While  it  is  true  that  the  moving  pictures  display  vice  as 
well  as  virtue,  nevertheless  they  depict  vice  in  all  its  hideous- 
ness,  and  virtue  in  all  its  beauty,  causing  us  to  despise  the  one 
and  to  glorify  the  other.  Those  who  take  the  position  that 
it  is  wrong  to  allow  the  young  to  learn  of  the  dark  side  of  life, 
must  remember  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  avoid  a  danger 
until  we  have  learnt  of  it.  The  surest  preventive  of  criminal 
inclinations  in  the  young  is  to  drive  home  the  lesson  that  ''mur- 
der will  out,"  and  that  every  crime  has  its  punishment.  There 
has  never  yet  been  shown,  we  believe,  a  picture  which  would 
tend  to  influence  one  single  boy  or  girl  to  do  that  which  is 
wrong.  In  fact,  the  tendency  is  strongly  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. All  the  virtues  are  extolled  and  rewarded,  in  the  moving 
picture  plays,  and  the  villain  always  meets  a  just  punishment. 

As  the  drama  has  been  a  great  moralizer  in  the  past,  so 
can  the  moving  picture  be  a  source  of  great  good  in  the  future. 
All  art  is  ennobling,  and  the  motion  picture  art  is  no  exception. 
It  includes  all  that  the  drama  includes  except  elocution,  and  it 
also  comprises  the  art  of  photography  and  several  minor  arts. 

Hazlitt  observed  that  "It  is  remarkable  how  virtuous  and 
generously  disposed  every  one  is  at  the  play."  Not  only  is  this 
true  of  those  who  attend  the  moving  picture  shows,  but  it  is 
doubly  true,  because  the  latter  have  a  greater  variety,  and  con 
sequently  more  emotions  and  sentiments  are  aroused.  The 
on-lookers  at  the  picture  play  laugh,  weep,  tremble,  resent, 
rejoice,  and  are  inflamed,  as  their  emotions  are  appealed  to, 
and  it  has  been  observed  that  in  every  instance  the  moral  tone 


126 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


of  the  humblest  audience  is  high,  as  shown  by  the  response  to  the 
sentiments  shown  in  the  pictures.  In  brief,  the  general  influence 
of  the  moving  picture  play  is  remarkably  good,  and  it  promises 
to  be  even  better  in  the  future. 


^AV*VAVyVyVrV 


Sunday  School  superintendents,  attention !  If  you  really 
want  to  teach  your  children  the  various  stories  of  the  Bible, 
together  with  the  truths  which  they  illustrate,  why  not  hire  a 
Moving  Picture  apparatus?  Such  photoplays  as  "Herod  and 
the  New  Born  King"  will  please  and  instruct  the  young  as 
will  nothing  else,  and  what  is  more,  they  will  never  be  for- 
gotten. It  is  indeed  a  strange  notion  that  some  hyper-bigotted 
people  seem  to  have,  that  in  every  Motion  Picture  machine 
there  lurks  a  devil  with  red  horns  who  taints  every  film  that 
runs  across  the  lens.  A  Motion  Picture  machine  is  no  more  out 
of  place  in  a  church  than  is  an  organ.  We  must  learn  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  use  and  the  abuse  of  a  thing. 


The  world  is  slow  to  recognize  the  possibilities  in  the  Motion 
Picture.  If  this  were  ancient  Sparta,  they  would  be  utilizing 
the  films  to  teach  boys  how  to  fight;  or  if  in  the  classical  period 
of  Greece,  how  to  paint  or  to  carve,  or  to  draw,  or  even  how 
to  think  philosophically.  It  would  be  an  interesting  experiment 
if  a  dozen  children  should  be  taught  by  means  of  Moving  Pic- 
tures, all  the  school  branches  such  as  geography,  history,  botany, 
astronomy  and  the  classics;  and,  at  the  end  of  about  one  year, 
to  compare  these  children's  education  with  that  of  a  dozen 
similar  children  who  had  been  five  years  learning  all  this  in  the 
schools. 

A  correspondent  writes  to  inquire  if  this  magazine  accepts 
stories  from  the  Picture  Plays  of  the  so-called  "Independents. " 
Certainly.  Why  not?  We  know  no  difference  between  an  inde- 
pendent play  and  a  dependent  play.  t  If  the  manufacturers  have 
differences,  they  do  not  concern  us.  We  accept  and  pay  for  all 
stories  of  the  Picture  Plays  that  meet  with  our  requirements, 
and  it  does  not  concern  us  who  made  the  films. 


We  note  with  pleasure  the  increasing  high  standard  of 
photoplays.  The  output  of  last  month,  as  near  as  we  can 
determine,  is  a  decided  advance  in  quality  over  those  of  pre- 
ceding months. 


Musings  of 


■id  Photoplay 


(Note. — The  writer  of  these  notes  has  been  a  regular  patron 
of  the  Motion  Picture  Plays  since  they  were  first  publicly  shown, 
and  during  the  last  three  years  he  has  made  it  a  practice  to  visit 
at  least  seven  different  Picture  Theaters  each  week.  That  is  his 
way  of  studying  human  nature.  Not  all  of  his  comments  were 
inspired  by  the  Photoplays,  perhaps,  and  it  may  be  that  the  lessons 
and  morals  he  has  drawn  are  at  variance  with  the  intentions  of  the 
authors  of  those  silent  dramas,  and  with  their  own  ideas ;  yet  so  unique 
and  interesting  are  his  deductions,  that  we  shall  publish  each  month, 
in  this  department,  a  few  of  the  aphorisms  and  epigrams  of  The 
Photoplay  Philosopher. — The  Editor.) 


(E  Leaving  my  house  last  night  at  seven-thirty,  I  saw  one 
Motion  Picture  performance  from  beginning  to  end,  including 
five  plays  and  two  songs,  and  at  nine  I  was  back  home.  My 
neighbor  in  the  adjoining  hallroom  left  to  go  to  a  theater  at 
seven-thirty  and  arrived  home  at  eleven-fifteen.  He  saw  one 
play,  I  saw  five;  it  cost  him  $1.50,  it  cost  me  ten  cents;  nearly 
four  hours  of  his  life  are  gone,  only  one  and  a  half  of  mine. 
The  moral  I  draw  from  this  is,  that  the  photoplay  is  in  harmony 
with  modern  methods  and  progressive  civilization.  Nearly 
all  of  our  great  inventions  and  discoveries  are  directed  toward 
the  elimination  of  distance  and  the  reduction  of  labor,  in  order 
that  we  may  save  time.  We  have  the  four-day  ocean  liners, 
the  eighty-mile-an-hour-trains,  automobiles,  airships,  telephones, 
wireless  telegraphy,  and  labor-saving  machinery  of  every  de- 
scription; and  what  are  they  all  for  if  not  to  gain  time  and  to 
save  expense? 


G  When  a  play  is  produced  at  a  theater,  it  is  seen  by  only 
one  audience  at  a  time.  When  a  Motion  Picture  film  is  pre- 
pared, it  is  duplicated  in  thousands,  and  as  many  audiences 
see  it  in  one  night  all  over  the  world. 


128 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


CE  There  is  no  law  against  butting-in,  or  busybodying,  but 
there  should  be.  At  first  blush,  there  is  something  admirable 
about  the  person  who  is  so  sympathetic  and  benevolent  that 
he  is  ever  concerned  with  the  interests  of  others;  but  on  second 
thought,  it  is  obvious  that  the  elements  of  sympathy  and  benevo- 
lence are  only  secondary,  and  that  the  real  moving  incen- 
tive is  a  desire  to  assert  superior  knowledge.  What  seems  to 
be  kindheartedness,  is  only  a  spirit  of  criticism,  founded  on  an 
alleged  superior  intelligence.     Therefore,  don't  butt  in. 

CE  Being  a  brute  by  nature  and  ancestry,  were  it  not  for  his 
desire  to  please  the  opposite  sex,  man  would  still  be  a  brute. 
We  are  refined  and  polished  in  proportion  to  our  regard  for 
the  other  half  of  society. 

CE  The  history  of  all  successful  men  shows  that  they  had  a 
purpose  in  life.  Some  "Hitch  their  wagons  to  a  star,"  as  Emer- 
son puts  it,  and  some  aim  at  mere  wealth;  but  whatever  the 
object  sought,  every  man  can,  if  he  pursues  his  purpose  ardu- 
ously, come  somewhere  near  the  mark.  The  very  poorest 
marksman  will  hit  the  target,  or  very  near  it,  whereas  the 
aimless  man,  who  has  no  target,  is  likely  to  hit  nothing.  Arch- 
bishop Whately  once  said  of  a  pointless  sermon,  "The  man 
was  successful;  he  aimed  at  nothing  and  hit  it."  The  natural 
order  of  sequence  is,  Aim,  Action,  Accomplishment. 


CE  When  a  man  succeeds,  we  call  him  a  man  of  destiny;  when 
he  fails,  we  call  him  a  fool.  Success  largely  depends  upon  the 
proper  direction  of  energies.  Destiny  is  a  fair  wind  to  all 
who  get  in  the  right  boat  with  the  sails  properly  trimmed. 


CE  It  is  easier  to  criticise  the  work  of  others  than  to  do  it 
better   ourselves. 

CE  As  we  all  know,  selfishness  is  a  potent  force  at  work  in  all 
of  us,  but  it  must  be  true  that  sympathy  for  others,  and  desire 
to  make  them  happy,  is  just  as  universal.  Every  human  heart 
despises  selfishness,  just  as  it  reveres  human  sympathy.  It  is 
almost  impossible  for  a  selfish  man  to  become  popular,  and  it  is 
almost  impossible  for  a  sympathetic  man  to  become  unpopular. 


CE  Happiness  is  oftener  obtained  when  we  do  not  consciously 
make  it  our  aim,  than  when  we  do. 


NOTES   OF   THE   PICTURE   PLAYERS 

JOSEPH   DAILEY 

Among  the  picture  players  who  are  known  equally  well  to  the  Pic- 
ture patrons  of  the  halls  and  of  the  regular  theaters,  is  Mr.  Joseph 
Dailey,  the  comedian.  Among  his  more  notable  successes  in  photo- 
play, the  following  might  be  mentioned:  "A  Tangled  Masquerade," 
"Girls  Will  Be  Boys,"  and  "His  Master's  Son."  In  the  last  men- 
tioned, Mr.  Dailey's  work  as  the  old  colored  man  will  not  soon  be 
forgotten.  A  portrait  of  Mr.  Dailey  will  be  found  in  the  "Picture 
Players"  section  of  this  magazine. 

MISS   ALICE   DONAVAN 

Another  theatrical  star  who  is  shining  lustrously  in  photoplay  is 
Miss  Alice  Dona  van,  whose  portrait  adorns  our  Picture  Player  Gal- 
lery this  month,  and  her  expressive  face  will  doubtless  be  recognized 
at  once  by  thousands  of  readers  who  have  been  so  often  entertained 
by  her.  Her  "hits"  in  photoplay  have  been  many,  but  perhaps  the 
greatest  was  in  "The  Greater  Call,"  in  which  play  Miss  Donavan 
quite  monopolized  attention. 

MISS   LAURA   SAWYER 

Perhaps  no  picture  player  in  the  world  is  better  known  and 
more  admired  than  Miss  Laura  Sawyer.  Among  her  late  master- 
pieces are  the  heroine  in  "Through  the  Clouds;"  Alice  Eenshaw  in 
"The  Black  Bordered  Letter ;"  and  the  laborer's  wife  in  "The  Doctor." 

HERBERT  PRIOR 

Another  player  of  marked  distinction  is  Herbert  Prior,  who 
plays  in  the  same  company  with  Miss  Sawyer.  Among  his  "hits" 
were  the  secretary  to  Eoberts,  the  Politician,  in  "Through  the 
Clouds;"  Alice  Eenshaw's  lover  in  "The  Black  Bordered  Letter;" 
Mr.  Carson  in  "The  Link  that  Held;"  and  the  laborer  in  "The 
Doctor." 

CHARLES  OGLE 

Another  prominent  Picture  player  in  the  same  company  with 
Mr.  Prior  and  Miss  Sawyer,  is  Mr.  Ogle,  who  will  be  remembered 
with  pleasure  as  the  contractor  in  "Through  the  Clouds;"  The  Old 
Duke  in  "The  Days  of  Chivalry;"  Dr.  Clark  in  "The  Black  Bordered 
Letter;"  and  the  doctor  in  "The  Doctor." 

MABEL  TRUNNELLE 

Miss  Trunnelle  will  need  no  introduction,  for  she  will  readily  be 
recognized  as  one  of  the  leading  stars  in  the  Motion  Picture  world. 
One  of  Miss  Trunnelle's  latest  successes  was  as  the  fiancee  in  "The 
Doctor,"  which  interesting  story  will  be  found  in  this  number. 
MELLE.  GISELE    GRAVIER 

Melle.  Gravier  will  be  at  once  recognized  as  the  leading  French 
actress,  appearing  in  the  notable  foreign  picture  plays. 
KATHRYNE   WILLIAMS 

Miss  Kathryne  Williams  is  noted  for  her  beauty  as  well  as  for 
her  exquisite  acting,  and,  beautiful  as  our  Gallery  picture  of  Miss 
Williams  is,  it  does  not  do  this  leading  woman  justice.  What  reader 
can  look  upon  this  picture,  and  upon  the  others,  and  not  long  to  see 
them  move  in  photoplay? 

As  to  our  other  players  who  this  month  adorn  our  Gallery,  Miss 
Rita  Davis,  Miss  Jennie  Nelson,  Miss  Florence  Wragland,  Albert 
McGovern,  and  G.  M.  Anderson,  more  anon. 


m  m  Picture  Play  Tragedies  ID  m 


By  Hector  Ames 


*- 


EVERY  now  and  then  we  hear  an 
outcry  against  Moving  Pictures 
because,  forsooth,  some  pious 
preacher  has  heard  that  crimes  are  be-, 
ing  depicted  in  picture,  and,  thus  hear- 
ing, he  starts  a  crusade  against  all 
pictures,  including  good  and  bad  alike. 
These  ultra-good  people,  who  think  it 
harmful  to  learn  what  crimes  are  being 
committed,  or  who  believe  that  the 
records  of  all  crimes  of  the  past  should 
be  concealed,  will  have  a  hard  task  be- 
fore them  if  they  set  out  on  such  a 
mission.  Fr*st,  they  must  abolish  the 
newspapers,  because  these  are  records 
of  everything  that  is  evil  and  criminal. 
Second,  they  must  abolish  all  histories, 
because  these  are  full  of  crime,  murder, 
intrigue,  war  and  conquest.  Third, 
they  must  abolish  most  of  the  novels, 
magazines  and  story  books,  because 
these  are  replete  with  similar  examples 
of  the  criminal  tendencies  of  human- 
kind. Fourth,  they  must  abolish  the 
operas,  and  the  Shakespearean  plays, 
because  most  of  these  are  tragedies  of 
the  most  sensational  kind.  Fifth,  they 
must  abolish  that  greatest  of  all  books, 
in  which  it  is  told  how  Cain  killed  his 
brother  Abel,  and  other  crimes. 

Last  month,  many  of  the  Picture 
Theaters  showed  a  much-advertised 
Photoplay  entitled  "II  Trovatore,"  and 
probably  a  hundred  thousand  people 
witnessed  that  -  beautiful  tragedy  in 
picture.  The  play  starts  off  with  a 
kidnapping,  followed  by  a  duel  or  two, 
Mien  a  poisoning  episode,  then  a  few 


more  duels  and  fights  between  various 
groups,  and  ends  with  the  death  of  the 
hero,  whose  death  was  ordere.d  by  his 
own  brother.  There  is  nothing  in  this 
piece  but  murder,  crime,  passion,  grief 
and  remorse.  It  is  anything  but  cheer- 
ful. Yet,  it  is  part  of  one's  education 
to  know  this  classic  story,  and  one  who 
has  not  heard  the  opera  is  considered 
far  behind  the  times.  Not  only  is  it 
perfectly  proper  for  a  preacher  to  at- 
tend the  opera  of  "Trovatore,"  but 
nobody  ever  thought  of  forbidding  that 
pleasure  to  children,  nor  of  denying 
children  the  pleasure  of  learning  the 
music  of  that  opera,  or  of  hearing  the 
story  thereof.  Furthermore,  not  only 
has  nobody  thought  of  criticising  the 
Motion  Picture  people  for  putting  on 
"Trovatore,"  but  to  the  contrary  every- 
body seems  glad  that  it  was  done;  and 
the  general  opinion  is  that  this  sort  of 
thing  is  evidence  that  the  Motion  Pic- 
tures are  advancing  in  moral  and  artis- 
tic tone.  But,  what  if  a  picture  play 
should  be  put  on  with  some  common- 
place name — as  "John  Smith's  Re- 
venge," in  which  such  crimes  as  those 
in  "Trovatore"  are  depicted!  What  a 
a  howl  there  would  be,  and  how  the 
Censors  would  delight  in  forbidding 
such  demoralizing  pictures  to  be  seen ! 
It  is  all  right  to  teach  children  the 
horrible  crimes  of  ancient  kings,  but  it 
is  awful  wicked  to  show  them  how  the 
Indians  used  to  scalp  white  folks,  or 
how  cowboys  defend  themselves  and 
punish  offenders. 


PLOTS  WANTED  FOR  MOTION   PICTURE  PLAYS 

You  can  write  them.  We  teach  you  how  by  mail  in  1 0  easy  lessons.  Men 
or  women.  No  experience  and  only  common  school  education  necessary. 
Writers  can  earn  $50.  a  week.  Demand  increasing.  Write  us  quickly  for 
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STORIES  FROM  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  PHOTOPL-AYS, 
AUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED, TO  CHARM, IMSTRUCT, AMD  ENTERTAIN 


HOBART     BOSWORTH 
(SELIG) 


Q-r)ps>i/j]  I  The  June  issue  will  contain  a  clever  photoplay  story  by  one  of  America's  best-knowr 
kDpVLlUl,  .  womenj  Alma  Webster  Powell,  LL.B.,  B.M.,  M.A.,  entitled  "The  Candidates'1 
in  which  Women  Suffrage  and  the  labor  problem  are  handled  skillfully  and  sympathetically. 


MISS     ETHEL     ELDER 
(Ll/B/AO 


MISS    MARY     FULLER 
(EDISON) 


WI  LLIAM    WEST 
(EDISON) 


MISS    GRACE     LEWIS 
(  VITAGRAPH) 


HARRY    C.    MYERS 
LLUBIN) 


MISS     LILLIAN    WALKER 
(VITAGRAPH) 


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HOWARD    M.    MITCHELL 
(LUBIN) 


GUY    OLIVER 
(LUBIN) 


MASTER     KENNETH     CASEY 
(VITAGRAPH)       ' 


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Magazine 

26  Court  Street,  Brooklyn,  New  York  City,  N.  Y. 

CONTENTS    FOR    MAY,    1911 


Vni      T       No    4                                 PhYa  J  fifteen  cents  the  copy 

VUL.     1.         I>U.    f line   \  ONE  DOLLAR  FIFTY  THE  YEAR 

GALLERY  OF  PICTURE  PLAYERS : 

Miss  Ethel  Elder   I 

Miss  Mary  Fuller ' 2 

William  West    2 

Miss  Grace  Lewis    3 

Harry  C.  Myers   4 

"Jimmie"    5 

Miss  Lillian  Walker   6 

Howard  M.  Mitchell  7 

Guy   Oliver   7 

Kenneth  Casey    8 

PICTURE  STORIES : 

Catherine  Howard,  by  John  Olden 11 

Big  Hearted  Jim,  by  Luliette  Bryant 18 

The  Coming  of  Columbus,  by  Chas.  E.  Nixon 115 

The  Schoolma'am  of  Coyote  County,  by  Kenneth  S.  Clark 33 

Easter  Babies,  by  Beta   Breuil 27 

His  Master's  Son,  by  Allene  Tupper  Wilkes _|8 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  by  Montanye  Perry 56 

Was  He  a  Coward  ?     By  J.  LeRoy  Gibson 74 

The  Test,  by  May  Miller  Burleigh 79 

Selling  Old  Master,  by  Dorothy  Harpur 89 

A  Gambler's  End,  by  John  J.  a'Becket 96 

A  Drop  of  Water,  by  Dr.  L.  D.  Broughton 105 

Mike  the  Miser,  by  Margaret  H.  MacCulloch 109 

Bumptious  as  Romeo,  by  La  Touche  Hancock 41 

POEMS: 

The  Two  Lessons,  by  Will  Carleton 73 

After  Oliver    ( Selected)    126 

Moving  Pictures,  by  L.  Case  Russell 107 

Arkansaw,  as  She  Should  be  Pronounced,  by  Carl  Hopkins 122 

SCENES  FROM  NOTABLE  PHOTOPLAYS : 

The  Fishing  Smack 17 

Pricilla  and  the   Pequot    26 

The  C :  de     f  Honor 32 

Sk-jyiv  >'      .  the  Fittest    32 

Her  Adopted   Fathers    47 

The  Warrant  of  Red  Rube    72 

From   Out  the    Heart 88 

Tho  Your  Sins  Be  as  Scarlet   40 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor   95 

Love  at  First  Sight  114 

SPECIAL  ARTICLES : 

A  Pleasant  Afternoon,  by  Lizzie  Pinson 124 

A  Protest  Against  Sunday  Closing,  by  Harold  Aurelius  Heltberg 77 

The  Originator  of  the  word  "Photoplay" 108 


J) 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE 

\  HIS  is  a  Magazine  of  Illustrated  Stories,  taken  from 
the  notable  Photoplays  that  have  already  been  shown 
at  the  Picture  Theaters,  and  those  that  are  soon  to  be 
shown,  so  that  he  who  has  seen  may  read,  and  he  who 
has  read  may  see,  the  best  Picture  Stories  of  the  times. 
Who  reads  the  wonderful  stories  and  admires  the  beau- 
tiful pictures  in  this  magazine,  will  want  to  see  the 
characters  MOVE ;  and  who  has  been  charmed  with  a  photo- 
play, will  want  to  have  it  retold  in  story  and  to  preserve 
important  scenes  in  permanent  form.  But,  aside  from  this,  we 
submit  that  no  better  stories,  and  certainly  no  better  photos,  nor  as 
many,  are  to  be  found  in  any  other  publication. 

All  manufacturers  of  Motion  Pictures,  here  and  abroad,  are 
invited  to  submit  Scenarios  and  photographs,  which,  if  accepted, 
will  be  paid  for  on  publication  at  usual  rates.  No  stories,  photo- 
graphs or  scenarios  will  be  accepted  unless  they  have  already  been 
shown  in  Motion  Pictures,  or  unless  they  have  been  arranged  to 
be  shown.  All  pictures  and  manuscripts  must  be  accompanied  with 
return  postage,  and  must  be  submitted  at  the  owner's  risk.  Con- 
tributors should  retain  a  copy  of  all  matter  submitted. 

Poems  and  essays  pertaining  to  Motion  Pictures  are  desired, 
and  if  accepted  will  be  paid  for  at  our  usual  rates.  The  editor 
cannot  undertake  to  read  and  pass  upon  the  merits  of  manuscripts 
of  scenario-writers ;  these,  and  all  suggestions  for  scenarios,  must 
be  submitted  direct  to  the  manufacturers.  This  magazine  has  its 
own  staff  of  writers  who  write  all  stories  that  appear  in  this  maga- 
zine, from  scenarios  submitted  by  and  accepted  from  the  manufac- 
turers of  Motion  Pictures. 

This  magazine  may  be  purchased  at  the  news  stands,  at  the 
Picture  Theaters,  or  at  publication  office.  The  management  will 
be  pleased  to  be  informed  of  any  Theater  manager  or  newsdealer 
who  does  not  keep  it  on  sale. 

This  magazine  is  owned  and  published  by  The  M.  P.  Publishing 
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J.  Stuart  Blackton,  President;  D.  Roy  Shafer,  Vice-President; 
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Copyright,  191 1,  by  The  M.  P.  Publishing  Co. 

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terms  on  application.  "The  finest  magazine  in  the  world" — at  least, 
pictorially — replete  with  stories  of  human  interest,  depicting  life 
as  it  was,  as  it  is,  and  as  it  should  be,  furnishes  the  agent  with  a 
"talking  proposition"  not  to  be  excelled.  Besides,  it  speaks  for 
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THE   MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE 

26  Court  Street,  Brooklyn  New  York  City,  N.  Y. 


®  ®    Catharine  Howard    o  @ 


By  John  Olden 


I  JOHN  MINDENHAM,  of  Geddes- 
?  den,  in  the  County  of  Dorset,  where 
I  was  born  and  reared  in  the 
draper's  trade,  am  the  narrator  of  this 
strange  story.  I  am  not  a  talker  or 
tale-teller  by  my  trade,  which  lies  in 
the  feel  of  the  hand,  or  am  I  by  in- 
clination. My  habits  are  for  a  quiet 
corner  away  from  travelers  and  roy- 
sterers,  with  a  cosy  dish  and  flagon; 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  was 
made  the  vehicle  of  a  tale  such  as  you 
shall  hear. 

It  was  in  the  year  of  Our  Lord, 
1560,  in  the  reign  of  good  Queen  Bess, 
that  he  first  came  among  us;  a 
drunken,  broken  soldier.  Later,  by 
means  of  grace,  he  was  become  my  quiet 
company  for  many  nights  running  into 
years. 

On  a  certain  even,  in  winter,  when 
the  wind  came  new  and  cold  from  the 
sea,  the  "Bear  and  Signet"  was  full  to 
o'er-crowding  with  the  riff-raff  of  the 
road;  guilclless  artisans,  clerks,  stroll- 
ing players,  mendicants,  scriveners 
out-at-elbow,  sailor-men  and  what  not. 
In  one  corner,  seated  at  a  high  table, 
were  some  heavy  merchants  going  into 
Hants. 

The  hour  was  late,  so  paying  my 
score,  I  started  thru  the  tangled 
benches  for  the  door.  As  I  passed  an 
oldish  man,  doddering  in  his  cups,  he 
grasped  me  by  the  skirts.  "For  Bluff 
King  Hal/'  he  muttered,  groping  for 
his  jack.  "A  murrian  on  this  spewing 
ale." 

Now,  as  King  Harry  had  been  dead 
these  thirteen  years,  I  marvelled  at  his 
sotted  toast,  and  tarried  as  he  held  me. 
I  know  not  what  impulse  for  good  or 
evil  held  me  helpless  in  his  grasp,  but 
stop  I   did   and   this   to   my   undoing. 


Soon  we  were  seated  cheek  by  jowl. 
He  was  a  creature  from  another  age  of 
Flodden  Field  and  Spurs,  of  Wolsey 
and  the  holy  foxes.  Sure,  no  mate  for 
my  yardstick  and  broadcloth.  Yet, 
before  the  cock  crow,  we  were  cosens  of 
a  kind.  I  have  no  memory  of  reaching 
my  shop  in  Mercers'  Lane,  and  of  the 
doings  for  the  clay.  Suffice,  at  even 
again  my  habit  took  me  to  the  inn,  and 
there  I  found  my  erstwhile  crony. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  growing  of 
this  intimacy,  or  how  he  learned  to 
stretch  a  jack  of  malmsey  thru  a  win- 
ter's evening.  He  was  a  huge  broken 
man  of  strange  whimsies,  and  with  no 
intimates  save  me.  His  talk  was  al- 
ways of  the  past,  a  stitch  here  and 
there;  and  I  give  it  as  it  came. 


On  the  second  day  of  our  riding  from 
Hunstanton  to  Norwich,  where  the 
King  lay  renting  at  a  monastery,  Eaf- 
faeli,  the  royal  alchemist,  and  I,  of 
the  King's  own  guard,  neared  the  ham- 
let of  Horsham.  We  were  a  pair  of 
knaves,  this  Milanese  and  I,  of  a  color ; 
on  a  secret  mission  of  the  Tudor's;  he 
to  scheme  and  I  to  do.  It  had  come 
to  us  that  Harry  Howard,  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  and  the  King's  own  friend, 
was  pushing  a  feverish  amour  with  a 
sweet  young  relative,  one  Catherine 
Howard,  hard  by  at  his  castle  of  Hor- 
sham. It  was  our  business  to  watch 
and  report ;  for,  altho  King  Harry  suf- 
fered with  an  ulcer  of  the  leg,  his  heart 
was  pricking  for  a  new  adventure. 
Raffaeli,  the  weasel,  dismounted,  and 
we  led  our  nags  beneath  the  leafy  trees 
of  Horsham  Park.  It  was  late  spring 
and  good  riding;  and  mayhap  the 
lovers   would   be   stirring.      Our  guess 


11 


12 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY   MAGAZINE. 


KING  HENRY   DESCRIES    CATHARINE   IN   THE    CASEMENT. 


was  good ;  we  had  not  padded  thru  the 
Park  an  hour,  when  hoof-falls  warned 
us  to  cover.  Howard  and  his  maid 
were  riding  out.  They  almost  brushed 
us  in  their  quick  passage,  but  we  had 
seen  enough.  Kaffaeli,  whipping  out 
his  quill  and  inkhorn,  wrote  a  few  hur- 
ried lines,  and  bade  me  ride  to  Nor- 
wich without  stint  or  stop,  and  there  to 
see  the  King.     While  I  was  on  my  bid- 


ding, the  weasel  must  have  gained  the 
ear  of  Howard;  for  I  had  delivered 
the  letter  but  by  a  scant  hour,  when  in 
he  came  a-bobbing  on  his  mount. 

"And  has  the  King  read  my  writ- 
ing," he  asked,  cocking  an  eye  at  me. 

"Yes/'  I  answered,  "and  it  put  him 
in  the  devil's  own  pother.  He  is  even 
now  up  and  dressing  for  the  road." 

I  had  never  seen  such  haste  in  King 


CATHARINE    HOWARD. 


13 


Harry  before;  for  in  a  trice  he  had 
hobbled  out,  and  was  bawling  for  his 
horse.  At  dusk  we  jacked  him  on  and 
rode  toward  Horsham;  the  King 
a-cursing  at  his  leg.  What  with  our 
slow  progress,  the  Duke  met  us  below 
the  Park.  He  looked  white  and  sick; 
for  sure  a  mighty  poacher  was  prowl- 
ing near  his  nest.  Someways  in  the 
Park,  the  King  would  be  dismounted, 
and  Howard,  shaking  like  a  toper, 
helped  him  down.  The  moon  had  by 
this  time  risen,  and  cast  a  white  light 
in  the  trees.  We  followed  a  by-path, 
and  stumbling  over  roots,  came  out  be- 
fore the  high  donjon  of  Horsham 
House.  Keeping  in  the  long  black 
shadow,  we  reached  its  walls,  the  King 
panting  and  puffing  like  a  blown  ox. 
Lord  Howard  gave  a  shrill  whistle,  and 
almost  on  the  instant  a  casement 
opened  not  four  yards  away,  and 
framed  the  opening  from  a  clear  inner 
light.  I  heard  the  King  gasp,  and 
Raff aeli  press  him  against  the  masonry ; 
for  sharp  as  a  poinard,  a  young  girl's 
shape,  cut  out  a  shadow  from  the  win- 
dow's sheath. 

She  was  leaned  forward  listening, 
and  the  moonlight  caught  her  face  and 
neck  like  a  white  cameo.  A  strange 
ruddy  haze  shone  from  her  thick  hair, 
and  her  listening  eyes  were  parted 
wide.  One  moment  her  lips  flashed  a 
smile,  and  then,  closing  the  casement, 
the  shape  was  gone.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment a  cloud  passed  over  the  moon,  and 
Raff  aeli  was  for  doubling  on  our 
tracks.  I  cannot  forget  how  they 
stood  there,  the  weasel  smiling  softly; 
Howard,  hands  fisted,  the  blood  trick- 
ling from  his  bit  lips;  the  King  in 
thick  daze,  leering,  yet  his  hands  open- 
ing and  shutting. 

*         *         * 

How  we  got  the  King  back  to  Nor- 
wich monastery,  and  how  he  lay  a-bed 
there  from  a  fresh  opening  of  his  sore, 
does  not  concern  you.  I  was  a  rough 
hand  at  nurse  and  left  such  work  to 
the  lay  brothers.  The  King  kept  them 
scuttling  like  frightened  rabbits.  Raf- 
faeli tip-toed  in  and  out,  and  I  judged 
there  was  a  plot  a-hatching.  Now,  in 
the  stress  of  what  followed  thick  and 


fast,  much  happened  that  I  was  not 
privy  to.  I  was  not  a  peeper  and  spy- 
all  like  the  Italian,  and  'twas  only  by 
dint  of  slow  computation  that  I  pieced 
it  one  and  two. 

Raffaeli  came  to  me  with  a  missive 
bearing  the  royal  seal,  and  bade  me  de- 
liver it  privately  to  the  Duke  at  Hor- 
sham. As  I,  sniffing  evil,  rode  the 
Park,  a  waggon  laden  with  the  Duke's 
furniture  lay  rutted  in  the  roadway. 
1  reached  the  castle  and  found  a  stir 
among  the  servitors;  and  much  hurry- 
ing and  packing  of  chattels.  From  a 
stableboy  I  learned  the  Duke  was  off 
in  much  haste  for  Ladbeth,  his  place 
near  London.  Coming  on  him  in  a 
riding  coat,  I  gave  him  the  King's  let- 
ter. He  turned  his  back  to  read  it,  but 
I  saw  him  start  as  the  writing  bit  in; 
turning,  he  bade  me  follow;  and  soon 
we  were  back  on  the  Norwich  road. 

Raffaeli  met  him  at  the  King's  door, 
and  they  going  in,  he  closed  it  tightly. 
When  Norfolk  came  out  alone,  he  stag- 
gered like  a  drunkard,  and  scarce 
could  hold' a  footing  on  the  stairs. 

"Marry  the  King's  sister !"  he  mut- 
tered. "My  dove  in  his  talons  !  Scarce 
my  bride — yet  I  dare  not  tell  him." 
The  frenzied  man  fumbled  with  his 
stirrups,  and  'ere  I  could  help  him, 
was  pounding  down  the  road. 

For  the  space  of  two  days  nothing 
happened,  and  I  thought  the  plot  was 
cooling,  but  then  a  black-edged  letter 
came  from  Horsham,  that  started  all 
to  boiling. 

The  King's  door  stayed  bolted,  but 
Raffaeli  was  inside.  The  gallery 
seemed  to  echo  whispers  from  within, 
and  I  could  hear  the  King  groaning  out 
his  answers.  Now,  when  night  began 
to  fall,  the  Milanese  stuck  his  head  out 
in  the  passage  and  bade  me  enter. 
King  Henry  lay  upon  a  tousled  bed, 
his  leg  much  swollen  and  swathed  with 
bandages.  I  bent  over  him  and  kist 
his  big  jeweled  hand. 

"Hark  ye,"  he  said,  "get  a  wherry 
and  have  it  by  the  bridge  at  midnight. 
There  is  devil's  work  a-foot  at  Hor- 
sham, so  haste  ye." 

That  night,  I  rowing,  the  King 
seated  heavily  in  the  stern,  we  worked 
slowly   up  the   river  Wensum   till  we 


14 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


came  upon  the  dark  mass  ^f  Horsham 
Bridge.  By  an  agreement  Norfolk 
met  us  there,  and  getting  out  the  King 
as  best  we  could,  we  stood  by  the  cel- 
lars of  Horsham  Castle.  There  in  the 
dark,  huddled  on  the  bank,  we  heard 
the  horrid  tale  from  Norfolk.  He  had 
returned  to  Horsham  and  without  more 
ado  had  told  Catherine  the  King's 
finality;  that  he  must  marry  Princess 
Margaret."  She  had  wept  in  his  arms 
and  he  had  comforted  Lxer  as  best  he 
could.  He  had  scarcely  returned  to 
his  wing  of  the  castle,  when  hurried 
knocking  came  upon  his  door.  Fright- 
ened servitors  stood  sheep-like  in  his 
gallery.  Something  was  amiss  with 
Mistress  Catherine.  With  a  pounding 
heart  he  had  hastened  down  the  long 
corridors  and  thru  the  secret  passage  to 
the  donjon.  Her  door  was  ajar  and 
no  one  stirring.  Pushing  in,  he  saw 
her  young  form  lying  on  a  couch;  the 
room  in  some  dis-array.  Seizing  her 
hand  he  sought  to  break  her  sleep,  but 
it  was  hopeless.  She  had  a  soft  pallor 
on  her  cheeks,  like  one  dreaming;  the 
tint    of    a    sea-shell :     the    soul    had 


winged  away.  By  her  side  a  shattered 
glass  told  him  the  weapon.  Then  he 
knew  not  what  he  had  done.  His  head 
span,  and  scorched  like  a  smith's  iron. 
In  the  early  dawn,  they  had  carried 
her,  drest  in  white,  beneath  the  castle 
and  she  was  laid  with  holy  candles  in 
the  vault  of  the  Howards. 

Having  finished,  he  looked  keenly  at 
the  King,  who  took  no  notice,  propping 
against  a  young  tree.  At  length  Henry 
Tudor  spoke. 

"Ye  tell  me,  my  lord,"  he  said  in  a 
strange  voice,  "she  lies  in  Horsham 
vaults.  Then  take  me  to  her ;  for  even 
a  King  can  grieve." 

Norfolk  grjped  the  walls,  and  open- 
ing a  small  portal,  bade  us  enter.  The 
place  was  jetty  black  inside  and  foul 
with  old  vapours.  Keeping  close  to 
Norfolk,  we  slowly  trudged  the  void, 
the  King  between  us.  At  length  the 
dim  glow  of  mass  candles  lit  the  solemn 
journey,  and  we  came  into  a  groined 
and  vaulted  chamber.  Along  the  walls 
carvecl-stone  caskets  held  the  ashes  of 
dead  Howards;  and  in  the  centre  lay  a 
marble  slab,  new  placed.     On  it  lay  a 


THE  KING  PLACES  HIS  SIGNET  RING  ON  CATHARINE'S  FINGER. 


CATHARINE    HOWARD. 


15 


CATHARINE  DECIDES   TO   BE   A   QUEEF. 


young,  white  form ;  wax  candles  played 
a  soft  light  on  her  like  a  fountain. 
The  King  hobbled  forward  alone,  and 
knelt  with  difficulty.  We  saw  him  take 
his  signet  from  a  ringer  and  place  it 
on  her  limp  hand.  He  raised  his  arms 
in  the  gesture  of  a  priest.  We  turned 
and  left  him  chanting  the  last  rites. 

The  morrow  dawned  bright  and 
clear,  yet  a  forboding  day  for  Horsham 
House.  Hardly  had  matins  sounded 
when  KafTaeli  arrived  from  Norwich 
Town,  with  the  King's  sister,  Bishop 
Gardiner,  and  a  small  retinue.  Henry 
and  Norfolk  met  them  on  the  terrace 
by  the  river  with  such  formality  as  be- 
came a  Princess  of  the  blood.  Norfolk 
and  Margaret  walking  together,  they 
made  a  small  procession,  and  entered 
the  Duke's  chapel.  At  length  King 
Henry  and  Gardiner  came  forth  and 
walked  the  gardens  in  earnest  confer- 
ence. The  Bishop  in  two  minds  about 
a  matter,  was  ever  nodding  ay  and  nay. 
Anon  the  point  was  settled,  and  it  came 
upon  me  that  a  royal  marriage  was  to 
be  its   issue.     Henrv.   dismissing   Gar- 


diner, sent  for  Norfolk,  who  came  with 
leaden  feet.  He  stood  before  the  King 
almost  with  defiance,  and  I  looked  for 
a  stormy  scene.  Yet  the  matter  went 
with  dispatch,  till  I  was  called  away. 

Now,  what  transpired  from  then  till 
vespers,  I  know  not,  being  busied  with 
the  mounts.  As  the  sun  was  setting,  I 
came  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  found 
the  King,  Princess  Margaret  and  a  few 
courtiers  in  a  flustered  group.  Mar- 
garet lay  half-supported  in  a  maid's 
arms;  Henry  looked  frightened  and 
angry.  On  coming  up  I  was  quizzed 
if  I  had  seen  aught  of  the  Duke;  and 
then  the  matter  came  out,  Norfolk 
had  disappeared;  clean  gone,  and  not 
a  trace  or  clew.  He  had  been  missed 
these  several  hours;  and  the  castle 
searched  from  keep  to  cellars. 

As  we  stood  there,  ruffled,  in  the 
dusk,  a  mist  came  from  the  river  and 
wrapped  us  all  about.  A  shrouded 
figure  was  making  toward  us  down  the 
terrace,  mayhap,  with  news.  The 
King,  looming  large  in  the  vapour,  was 
turned   toward    it.        As   the   creature 


16 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


neared,  he  started  violently,  and 
backed  against  a  coping.  It  was  a 
woman,  in  white  cerements;  and  she 
came  gliding  with  arms  outstretched. 
Henry,  in  a  shudder  crossed  himself, 
and  kept  the  wall.  The  white  woman, 
wraith-like,  sped  past  us,  straight  as  an 
arrow  for  the  King.  "Jesu  !"  he  stut- 
tered, "absolve  me." 

"Ah !  Gracious  Sovereign,"  she 
said  lowly,  "here  is  your  signet,  if  I 
am  not  holy,  send  me  away." 

"Catherine !"  he  said,  turning  to- 
ward her,  "risen  from  the  dead!" 

"By  your  prayers  meward,"  she  an- 
swered sweetly.  "It  was  but  a  seizure, 
and  the  cold  vaults  have  recovered  me 
fully;  but  I  fear  for  Norfolk." 

"How,  now!"  said  Henry.  "Is  the 
Duke  now  in  them  ?" 

"Ay  !  My  Majesty  !  He  sought  me ; 
and,  by  arrangement,  is  locked  shut 
therein." 

"By  my  rood !"  said  Henry  coldly. 
"Crafty  fox !  Then  he  shall  suffer  a 
martyrdom  as  beseems.  And  you, 
sweet  Cath !  Y'  are  ready  for  a  jour- 
ney Londonward?"  She  gave  one 
swift  upward  look  at  him,  and  placed 
a  hand  upon  his  &leeve.  Then,  turn- 
ing she  dropped  from  her  girdle  a  heavy 
key.  It  fell  into  the  Wensum,  and 
they,  smiling,  watched  it. 


And  now,  as  you  know,  he  carried  her 
to  London  and  made  her  his  Queen. 
Poor  moth  !  'Twere  better  for  her  had 
she  lain  forever  as  he  had  seen  her  at 
Horsham  House.  She  was  his  sum- 
mer's plaything  at  Windsor,  courted  by 
the  gallant  throng.  She  was  dainty, 
vivacious  and  above  all  lovable.  The 
device  on  her  arms  read,  "No  other  will 
than  his." 

Having  been  set  up  like  a  doll's 
house  by  priestly  intrigues,  it  served 
them  when  the  time  came  to  pull  her 
down  again.  On  the  day  after  All 
Saints'  Day,  when  Henry  was  at  mass, 
Archbishop  Cranmer  put  a  paper  in  his 
hand  with  a  caution  to  read  it  in  pri- 
vacy. It  contained  the  confession  of 
a  serving  maid,  that  Catherine  had  been 
married  secretly  to  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk;  while   at    Horsham.     To   foil   a 


CATHARINE   RECOGNIZES   HER 
HEADSMAN. 

Kingly  lover,  like  Henry  Tudor,  were  a 
foolhardy  matter;  and  his  cooled  love 
turned  to  bitterness  toward  her.  With 
a  small  escort  she  was  sent  up  the 
Thames  to  Sion  House  to  await  the 
King's  pleasure.  By  devious  counsels 
her  death  was  decided  upon ;  for  by  the 
law,  such  as  it  was,  the  royal  blood 
had  been  attainted. 

It  was  on  a  grey  morning  in  Jan- 
uary that  the  word  came  to  bring  her 
down  the  river.  We  put  forth  in  three 
vessels;  first,  a  state  barge  filled  with 
Privy  Councillors;  a  guard's  barge 
filled  with  soldiers,  I  among  them ;  and 
a  little  barget  entirely  covered.  In  this 
was  Queen  Catherine  alone.  The 
barge-mates  cast  off  and  the  sad  pro- 
cession swept  along  the  wintry  river 
Londonward. 

Under  the  frowning  portcullis  of  the 
Traitor's  Gate,  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light, the  beautiful  girl  in  black  silk- 
velvet,  landed  amidst  a  throng  of 
courtiers.  She  was  treated  with  much 
ceremony ;  as  if  she  sate  by  the  King's 
side.  Her  cousin,  the  poet  Surrey, 
with  his  own  doom  impending,  bending 
low,  handed  her  from  the  barget.  We 
formed  ranks,  and  she  stepping 
blithely,  marched  to  the  walls  of  Lon- 
don Tower,  where  a  scaffold  was  set  up. 


CATHARINE    HOWARD. 


17 


It  was  now  dark,  and  torches  were 
called  for  to  haste  our  task.  Here  an 
unseen  hitch  occurred;  the  headsman 
could  not  be  found.  Whether  fright- 
ened by  a  Queen's  death,  he  had  slipped 
off,  none  could  say.  And  now,  there 
was  much  disputation,  and  we  were  like 
to  have  left  off  and  to  have  led  her  in 
the  Tower.  A  royal  herald,  mounting 
the  scaffold,  gave  the  news.  There 
went  up  a  great  murmur  from  the 
crowd;  some  were  for  putting  it  off, 
some  were  for  a  new  executioner,  and 
some  weeping  like  any  woman.  Yet 
she  took  it  all  in  good  part  and  turn- 
ing to  the  priest  said,  "Father !  If 
they  would  kill  me,  I  beseech  you  let 
it  be  now." 

The  matter  settled;  the  herald,  rais- 
ing his  staff,  called  for  some  citizen 
who  would  do  the  office.     At  this  turn, 


the  crowd  held  quiet;  and  no  response 
coming,  the  herald  descended. 

But  fate  willed  that  the  spectacle 
should  come  to  an  ending.  A  voice 
was  raised;  and  soon  the  crowd  giving 
back,  a  tall  man,  close- wrapped  in  a 
cloak,  pushed  his  way  forward.  He 
wore  no  head-gear,  nor  badge  of  office, 
but  his  face  was  covered  with  a  black 
mask.  Ascending  the  scaffold,  he 
fronted  the  Queen.  She  eyed  him 
calmly,  as  had  been  her  proceedings, 
and  bade  him  hasten  his  task.  He 
whispered  something,  and,  drawing 
close,  lifted  his  mask  for  her  alone. 
She  turned  chalk  white,  and  leaned 
against  the  stones.  Then  bending  near 
him  she  half  smiled. 

"Duke  Henry"  she  murmured  "this 
were  a  sorry  ending  to  our  play." 


4V 


1 1       ■  *r         •  si  sBf  <    i  ^B 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER,  FROM  "THE  FISHING  SMACK." 


PRANK  LANDING   AS   "EAGLE  WING"   IN   "BIG    HEARTED  JIM," 


Big  Hearted  Jim 


By  Lulierte  Bryant 

(Prom  the  Scenario  bv  Frank  Lanning) 


* 


IT  was  a  tiny  cabin,  perched  so  close 
to   the   edge    of   the   gulch   that   it 

seemed  in  imminent  danger  of  being 
blown  straight  clown  into  the  abyss 
below.  The  other  cabins  and  shacks, 
which  constituted  the  mining  camp  of 
Red  Dog  Gulch,  were  clustered  to- 
gether in  a  hollow,  further  clown  the 
trail.  Big  Hearted  Jim  was  the  sub- 
ject of  much  raillery  when  he  chose 
this  isolated  spot  for  his  home,  but  he 
bore  it  with  characteristic  good  humor. 

"What's  the  use  of  cuttin'  loose 
from  civilization  and  takin'  to  the 
open,  if  you're  goin'  to  live  huddled  up 
together 'like  you  did  back  East?"  he 
demanded,  calmly. 

"You've  sure  got  a  good  breathin' 
place  here,  Jim,"  drawled  one  of  his 
mates,  "but  I  hope  you  don't  take  to 
somnambulatin'.  If  you  drop  off  that 
cliff  some  night,  it's  a  safe  bet  we'll 
never  find  the  pieces." 

"It  would  be  somethin'  of  a  drop," 
admitted  the  disciple  of  the  open 
wilds,  "it's  a  sheer  two  thousand  feet 
down  there.  But  don't  you  worry 
none  about  your  Uncle  Jim,  he's  not 
doin'  any  fancy  dives  over  the  edge  by 
moonlight." 

So  Jim  finished  the  tiny  cabin, 
making  it  snu£  and  trim.  In  one 
end  was  a  wide  bunk,  in  the  other  a 
deep,  cheerful  fireplace.  Some  bearskins 
adorned  the  floor  and  a  scarlet  curtain 
swung  at  the  one  window.  Jim  was 
a  natural  home-maker,  and  back  of  his 
unfailing  good-humor  lurked,  alwavs, 
a  spirit  which  made  him  different 
from  his  mates,  the  silent,  insistent, 
contradictory  hunger  of  a  restless  soul 
for  a  fixed  abiding  place. 

It  was  a  bleak  Xovember  evening. 
The  sky  above  the  gulch  was   leaden, 


-* 


and  fine  flakes  of  snow  were  sifting 
silently  over  the  land,  as  Jim  closed 
the  door  of  the  little  cabin  and  started 
down  the  trail  toward  the  settlement. 
The  dark  pines  tossed  their  branches 
restlessly,  and  moaned  in  the  rising 
wind.  Another  moan  mingled  with 
the  pines — a  human  voice.  The  sound 
was  weird,  almost  uncanny,  there  in 
the  black  night  of  the  wilderness.  A 
woman  crept  from  out  the  shadows  and 
staggered  into  the  cabin,  bearing  a 
heavy  bundle.  Soon  she  emerged  with- 
out her  burden  and  ran  straight  to- 
ward the  cliff.  Was  that  wild  plunge 
the  result  of  a  misstep,  or  of  a  nicely 
calculated  distance?  There  were  two 
white  hands  flung  upward,  but  only  the 
bending  pines  saw;  there  was  one  long 
cry,  echoing  shrilly,  but  only  the 
moaning  pines  heard. 

Jim  whistled  cheerfully  as  he  came 
back  down  the  trail.  He  shook  the 
snow  from  his  coat  as  he  stepped  in- 
side the  cabin,  and  touched  a  match 
to  the  kindlings  in  the  fireplace.  The 
flames  shot  upward,  enwrapping  the 
logs  and  sending  a  red  glow  thru  the 
darkness.  Stepping  backward,  Jim's 
foot  touched  something  soft  and  he 
glanced  downward,  carelessly,  then 
with  a  look  of  surprised  interest. 

"Hello,  who's  left  a  blanket  roll  for 
me?"  he  said,  rolling  the  bundle  into 
the  firelight  to  get  a  good  look  at  it. 

It  was  a  soft,  fuzzy  bundle,  and  as 
it  rolled  it  suddenly  began  to  squirm, 
and  sat  upright.  The  red  coverlet  fell 
away  and  a  pair  of  round  blue  eyes 
looked  wonder inglv  out,  from  under 
a  fringe  of  curls,  at  the  astounded 
Jim. 


19 


20 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


ELIZABETH    AND    LITTLE    VIRGINIA    LEAVE    THEIR    HOME. 


"Where's  Mama?"  demanded  a 
small  voice. 

"Well  I'll  be  darned!"  ejaculated 
Jim,  feebly,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Where's  Mama?"  reiterated  the 
voice. 

"That's  the  question,  young  lady," 
replied  Jim,  trying  to  collect  his  scat- 
tered senses.  "Where  is  she,  likewise, 
who  is  she?" 

The  child  disentangled  herself  from 
the  clinging  coverlet  with  some  diffi- 
culty and  toddled  across  the  room  to 
Jim's  side,  leaning  against  his  knee. 

"I'm  Virginia,  and  I'm  four  years 
old,"  she  confided  with  a  trusting 
smile. 

"That's  useful  and  interestin'  in- 
formation, kiddie,  but  where  did  you 
come  from?     How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Papa  was  cross.  He  ate  my  bread 
and  milk  and  he  struck  mama.  Then 
he  went  to  sleep  and  mama  wrapped 
me  all  up  and  carried  me." 

Jim  questioned  further  in  vain. 
The  child  was  too  young  for  any  co- 
herent explanation.     Suddenly  he  put 


her  down  and  ran  outside,  where  he 
scanned  the  ground  carefully.  But  the 
great  flakes  of  snow  were  falling  stead- 
ily now,  and  even  his  own  recent  foot- 
prints were  completely  hidden. 

"I'm  sleepv,"  announced  the  little 
Virginia  as  Jim  returned,  "want  to  sit 
in  your  lap,  want  to  be  put  to  bed." 

She  nestled  in  Jim's  arms  with 
childish  confidence,  and  a  strange  thrill 
went  thru  the  man.  Some  long- 
empty  space  in  his  heart  seemed  sud- 
denly filled. 

"I'll  put  you  in  my  bed,"  he  said, 
lifting  her  gently,  but  she  protested. 

"I  don't  sleep  in  my  clothes.  Want 
my  nightie-gown !" 

Jim  looked  helplessly  about,  with  the 
wild  thought  of  offering  his  overcoat 
as  a  possible  substitute,  when  he  spied 
a  small  white  bundle  near  the  red 
blanket.  It  contained  two  clean, 
much-patched  little  gowns.  His  won- 
der increased  at  this  evidence  of  fore- 
thought. 

"Whoever  gave  you  to  me  intended 
it  for  keeps,"  he  said, .  thoughtfully. 


BIG   HEARTED   JIM. 


21 


"Now  undress  me,"  commanded  the 
child,  and  Jim  began,  with  clumsy 
fingers.  As  he  awkwardly  removed  the 
blue  gingham  dress  he  saw  a  oiender 
chain  about  the  white  throat. 

"It's  my  locket.  Mama  gave  it  to 
me;  it  opens/'  said  Virginia,  proudly. 

Jim  opened  the  locket  eagerly  A 
sweet  face  smiled  up  at  him,  a  woman's 
face,  winsome  and  tender,  with  the 
wide  frank  eyes  of  the  child  upon  his 
knee. 

"Elizabeth !"   he  gasped. 

"Here's  a  paper,  too,"  said  the  child. 
"Mama  pinned  it  on  my  waist." 

It  was  a  yellow,  faded  slip  which  Jim 
opened  with  shaking  hands. 

"Dear  Elizabeth:  I  leave  for  Ked 
Dog  Gulch  tonight.  Should  you  ever 
need  a  true  friend  you  will  find  one  in 
me.  Sincerely, 

Jim  Hazelton." 

Jim  stared  at  it  for  a  moment,  then 
shook  the  child,  half-roughly. 

"Can't   you   tell   me   where   she   is? 


Did   she   bring  you  ?     Where   di ' 
go?" 

But  Virginia,  frightened  at  his  tone, 
began  to  sob  and  could  tell  nothing 
except,  "Mama  carried  me  all  day.  I 
went  to  sleep." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Jim  soothingly, 
"you  shall  go  to  sleep  now." 

"I  must  say  my  prayers  first,"  said 
the  child,  and  kneeling  by  Jim's  side, 
she  said  them  drowsily.  A  moment 
later  she  was  asleep  in  the  bunk. 

Jim  opened  the  door  and  looked  out 
at  the  falling  snow  and  the  tossing 
pines.  Then,  with  a  lantern,  he  went 
forth  in  patient,  eager  search. 

Hours  afterward,  he  came  back  to 
the  cabin.  The  child  slept  peacefully, 
her  golden  head  shining  against  the 
dark  blankets.  He  stirred  the  dying 
embers  until  they  blazed  again,  and  sat 
gazing  into  the  flickering  flames. 
Visions  danced  there,  picture  following 
picture  in  quick  succession.  Himself, 
a  sturdy  blacksmith  in  a  pretty  village ; 
his  sweetheart,  Elizabeth,  fair  and 
sweet,  with  arch,  coquettish  ways;  the 


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■  +          *  ^m  , , 

« 

JIM  engages  red  wing  to  take  care  of  his  new  charge. 


22 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


TOM   HAS   WON   VIRGINIA'S   APPROVAL   BY   KNOCKING   DOWN   A   BURLY   MINER  WHO 

HAD    KICKED    A    LAME    DOG. 


city  agent,  with  whom  she  flirted  in 
innocent  mischief ;  his  own  quick  anger 
and  resentment;  his  hasty  note,  which 
lay  now  in  his  hand,  brought  by  the 
child,  wearing  the  locket  which  he  had 
given  Elizabeth,  looking  at  him  with 
Elizabeth's  eyes. 

The  sun  was  shining  thru  the  scarlet 
curtain  when  Virginia  opened  her  eyes 
and  sat  up  in  the  bunk. 

"Want  to  be  dressed,"  she  an- 
nounced, decidedly,  "want  my  curls 
brushed ;  want  my  breakfast ;  want 
sugar  on  my  bread." 

"Your  wants  are  middlin'  numerous, 
ain't  they?"  queried  Jim,  cheerfully. 
"Well,  you  can't  be  blamed,  it's  born 
into  your  sex  to  want  somethin'  dif- 
ferent every  minute !" 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  continued,  eye- 
ing the  pile  of  small  garments  dubious- 
ly, "that  my  natural  instinct  for  leav- 
in'  those  little  duds  on  you  was  all  to 
the  good.     They  come  off  fairly  easy, 


but  the  Lord  knows  how  they're  to  be 
got  on  again." 

Virginia  snuggled  down  into  the 
blankets  with  a  happy  laugh. 

"Play  Virginia's  sick,"  she  said,  hap- 
pily; "eat  breakfast  in  my  nightie- 
gown  !" 

At  this  opportune  moment  there 
was  a  short  knock,  and  a  young  squaw, 
followed  by  a  tall  Indian,  stepped  into 
the  room.  Jim  held  up  a  warning 
hand. 

"Don't  scare  the  kid,"  he  said  anx- 
iously. 

But  Virginia  was  far  from  fright- 
ened. She  climbed  from  the  bunk  and 
ran  joyously  to  the  squaw.  "Pretty 
lady,  pretty  lady,"  she  cooed,  patting 
the  dark  hand,  "pretty  dress,  pretty 
feathers." 

The  squaw's  dusky  face  brightened, 
and  she  bent  to  hang  a  string  of  gaudy 
beads  about  the  child's  throat. 

"Pretty  lady  dress  Virginia,"  coaxed 


BIG   HEARTED   JIM. 


23 


the  child,  and  Jim's  anxious  face 
cleared,  suddenly. 

"That's  the  idea !"  he  exclaimed. 
"Red  Wing,  you  stay  here  and  take  care 
of  this  cabin  and  the  kid  for  me.  I'll 
pay  you  more  than  you  make  peddlin'. 
Nurses  ain't  plenty  in  these  regions 
and  I  need  one  bad." 

After  some  bargaining  and  urging, 
this  plan  was  agreed  upon.  The  In- 
dian went  his  way,  leaving  his  sister  to 
become  Virginia's  devoted  nurse.  A 
fence  was  built  to  prevent  the  tiny  feet 
from  straying  too  near  the  cliff's  edge, 
and  there,  beneath  the  whispering- 
pines,  the  child  prattled  and  played, 
filling  the  cabin  home  and  Jim's  hun- 
gry heart  with  love  and  sunshine. 

Twelve  years  made  little  change  in 
the  settlement  at  Bed  Dog  Gulch,  but 
a  great  change  in  Virginia.  At  six- 
teen she  was  a  slim,  graceful  maiden 
with  a  sweet,  piquant  face  and  a  pair 
of  blue  eyes  looking  out  from  their 
long  lashes  with  the  frank,  innocent 
gaze  of  her  childhood. 

Two  rooms  had  been  added  to  the 
little  cabin.  Books  and  a  piano  had 
been  bought,  and  the  mine  superin- 
tendent's wife  had  supervised  Vir- 
ginia's education.  But  now  Jim  had 
decided  that  the  girl  must  be  sent  to 
a  boarding  school  and  he  held  firmly 
to  his  decision,  tho  Virginia  protested, 
entreated,  even  wept. 

"I'm  so  happy  here.  Why  should  I 
have  to  go  away?  Don't  you  want  me 
any  more,  Jim?" 

Jim's  face  grew  white.  "Don't, 
child,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  know  how 
we  shall  miss  you?  But  it  isn't  right 
to  keep  you  here.  You  must  go  and 
see  what  life  outside  a  mining  camp  is 
like.  If  you  want  to  come  back,  after 
a  year,  you  may." 

"I'll  want  to,"  said  Virginia,  drying 
her  tears.  "I'll  study  hard  and  do  my 
best,  but  all  the  time  I'll  be  counting 
the  days  till  I  can  come  home." 

Jim  did  not  tell  Virginia  what  it 
was  that  had  crystallized  his  half- 
formed  plan  to  send  her  away.  A 
young  engineer,  Tom  Whitney,  had 
come  out  from  the  East  several  months 
before  and  was  an  everydav  visitor  at 


the  cabin  on  the  cliff.  The  intimacy 
began  one  day  when  Jim  and  Virginia 
saw  Tom  knock  down  a  burly  miner 
who  was  kicking  a  lame  dog.  Carry- 
ing the  dog  to  the  cabin,  the  three 
nursed  it  back  to  life  and  a  close  friend- 
ship resulted.  Jim's  keen  eyes  could 
not  fail  to  see  the  trend  of  events 
and  when  Tom  told  him  of  his  love 
for  Virginia,  he  answered  as  steadily 
as  if  his  heart  was  not  bleeding  at  the 
very  thought  of  losing  her. 

"It's  all  right,  Tom,  but  you've  got 
to  wait.  The  girl's  got  to  have  a  fair 
show.  It  ain't  fair  to  bind  her  to 
any  one  now.  I'm  goin'  to  send  her  to 
the  seminary  at  Los  Angeles.  If  she 
chooses  to  come  back  here  next  year, 
you  may  win  her  if  you  can." 

So  Virginia,  with  many  tears  and 
backward  looks,  left  the  cabin  on  the 
cliff.  Thru  the  long  months  that  fol- 
lowed the  two  men  found  their  chief 
pleasure  in  writing  long  letters  to  her, 
and  in  reading  her  affectionate  replies. 
Her  letters  told  of  pleasant  associa- 
tions, kind  teachers,  jolly  frolics  and 
excursions,  but  thru  all  breathed  the 
longing  for  her  beloved  home.  "When 
I  close  my  eyes,  I  can  smell  the  pines, 
and  see  the  cabin  with  you  all  waiting 
for  me,"  she  wrote,  and  the  men's  eyes 
moistened  as  they  read. 

"She  don't  seem  to  get  weaned  away 
much,"  said  Jim. 

The  long  year  ended  at  last,  and  they 
watched  eagerly  for  the  stage  which 
would  bring  Virginia  home.  If  Jim's 
joy  was  somewhat  sobered  by  the 
thought  of  losing  her  again,  if  Tom's 
suit  succeeded,  he  gave  no  sign,  but 
listened  patiently  to  the  lover's  plans 
for  the  future.  It  was  an  anxious  mo- 
ment when  the  stage  came  in  sight,  for 
each  man  secretly  dreaded  a  change  in 
the  girl.  But  it  was  the  same  winsome 
Virginia  who  flung  herself  into  Jim's 
arms,  crying,  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  be 
here !" 

For  a  week  Virginia  laughed  and 
sang  about  the  cabin  like  her  own 
merry  self.  Then,  as  Jim  came  up  the 
trail  at  noon,  she  went  to  meet  him,  a 
telegram  in  her  hand,  a  half-amused, 
half-anxious  look  in  her  clear  eyes. 

"Cannot    live    without     vou.       Am 


24 


THE   MOTION  PICTURE   STORY  MAGAZINE. 


TOM  TELLS  JIM   OF  HIS  LOVE  FOR   VIRGINIA. 


coming  at  once,''  read  Jim.  "Well, 
Virginia,  who  is  this  Harold  Sinclair 
who's  dependin  on  you  for  his  life?" 

Virginia  langhed  at  Jim's  comical 
tone.  "He's  a  New  Yorker,  and  he's 
very  rich.  His  sister  was  at  the  sem- 
inary and  I  met  him  at  parties.  He 
asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"Is  he  a  good  man?"  asked  Jim, 
sharply. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  a  splendid  fellow, 
but  I  didn't  want  to  marry  him," 
answered  Virginia. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  liked  some  one  else  better,"  re- 
plied the  girl,  blushing. ' 

"That's  Tom,"  thought  Jim,  trying 
to  be  glad  that  it  was  so.  But  when 
Harold  Sinclair  arrived,  Virginia  be- 
came a  puzzle  to  Jim.  She  treated 
both  Tom  and  Harold  with  sweet, 
good-natured  friendliness,  but  dexter- 
ously avoided  being  alone  with  either, 
keeping  them  both  with  her,  or  leaving 
them  to  entertain  each  other,  while  she 
walked  with  Jim.  Jim's  wonderment 
increased  when  Tom,  having  at  last 
found  the  girl  alone  for  a  moment, 
came  to  him  with  despair  in  his  face. 


"It's  no  use,"  he  said,  brokenly,  "she 
says  she  likes  some  one  better  than  me." 

"I'm  sorry,  Tom,"  was  Jim's  only 
comment,  but  he  sought  Virginia  at 
once. 

She  was  standing  under  a  great  pine 
by  the  trail  and  looked  up,  gladly,  at 
his  coming. 

"Little  girl,"  he  said,  gravely, 
"where's  your  locket?" 

"Here,"  answered  Virginia;  "I 
always  wear  it." 

"Open  it,"  directed  Jim,  and  the  girl 
obeyed,  surprised  at  his  gravity. 
They  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  at 
the  pictured  face,  then  Jim  spoke: 

"Your  mother  was  a  good,  true 
woman,  Virginia,  but  her  happiness 
and  mine  was  wrecked  because  she  was 
coquettish,  and  I  was  rash  and  hasty. 
If  she  could  speak  to  you  now,  little 
girl,  she  would  tell  you  never  to  flirt, 
not  even  in  fun." 

Virginia's  troubled  eyes  looked  up, 
frankly  into  Jim's. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  sim- 
ply, "what  have  I  done  that  is  wrong  ?" 

"You  tell  Harold  that  you  love  some 
one  better  than  him,"  said  Jim,  sternly, 


BIG   HEARTED   JIM. 


25 


"then  you  say  the  same  words  to  Tom. 
Is  that  fair,  to  play  one  against  the 
other?  I  did  not  think  my  girl  would 
amuse  herself  that  way." 

Virginia's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  A 
rebuke  from  Jim  was  a  rare  and  serious 
affair,  but  she  answered  bravely : 

"I  was  not  playing;  it  is  true." 

"Do  you  mean  that  there  is  some  one 
else?" 

"Yes,"  half-sobbed  the  girl. 

As  Jim  stood,  bewildered,  Virginia 
came  a  step  nearer,  and  cast  a  shy,  be- 
seeching look  at  him.     A  strange  light 


entered  the  man's  eyes — a  glad, 
amazed,  incredulous  light.  He  bent 
nearer,  looking  into  the  wide  blue  eyes, 
hardly  daring  to  hope  that  he  read 
them  aright. 

"Little  girl !"  he  breathed,  holding 
out  his  arms,  "is  it  really  true?" 

Tom  and  Harold,  coming  up  the  trail 
a  moment  later,  stopped  suddenly,  at 
sight  of  an  unexpected  tableau. 

"So  that  was  the  reason,"  said 
Harold,  enviously. 

"Good  old  Jim !  He  deserves  her," 
said  Tom,  bravely. 


LITTLE  DID  JIM  REALIZE,  FIFTEEN  YEARS  AGO,  THAT  THIS  INFANT  WAS  TO  BECOME 

HIS    WIFE. 


* 


*  *    Easter  Babies    *  * 


By  Beta  Breuil,  Author  of  the  scenario  and  of "  Tho  your  Sins  be  as  Scarlet 


6  i  (\0-ll !      See  'ittle  baby  !"     cried 
\J   Toddletots  to  Dollydee. 

These  little  persons  were  sit- 
ting on  the  front  steps,  turning  the 
leaves  of  a  ponderous  picture  book,  but 
it  was  not  the  book  that  occasioned  the 
exclamation,  nor  was  it  the  pictures. 
A  lady  was  passing  by,  pushing  a 
quaint  little  cart,  in  which  reposed  a 
little  bundle  of  humanity,  and  it  was 
this  that  had  aroused  Toddletot's 
curiosity.  Dollydee's  attention  having 
been  attracted  to  the  object  of  interest, 
that  young  lady  proceeded  to  survey 
the  situation,  and,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection, quite  made  up  her  feminine 
mind. 

"Nice  'ittle  baby!"  she  announced, 
in  a  tone  which  indicated  that  she  had 
rendered  her  decision  after  mature  de- 
liberation. But,  no  sooner  had  the 
curly-haired  young  mother  passed  on, 
with  her  precious  burden,  than  there 
came  into  view  another  parcel  of  in- 
dividuals which  were  fully  as  interest- 
ing as  the  first.  The  leader  of  this 
imposing  party  was  also  a  young 
woman,  but  her  skin  was  dark,  and,  tho 
her  hair  was  also  curly,  they  were 
small  black  curls,  almost  knots,  and 
very  numerous.  She  also  possessed  a 
vehicle,  a  queer  little  wagon,  and  this 
cart  contained  two  plump  brown  babies 
with  jet-black  eyes.  And,  that  was  not 
all,  for  in  her  arms  the  lady  carried  a 
third,  just  like  the  others.  It  was  not 
a  baby  show,  passing  in  procession,  but 
it  just  happened  that  way,  and  the 
audience  on  the  front  steps  were  quite 
entranced  at  the  spectacle. 

"Wonder  why  we've  dot  no  babies  in 
ar  house !"  exclaimed  Toddletots,  re- 
flectively, after  the  little  procession 
had  gone  by. 


"Dunno,  but  we  'ill  have,"  responded 
Dollydee,  with  decision,  and  the  way 
she  said  it  was  evidence  of  a  strong 
determination  to  carry  out  some  care- 
fully laid  plan  of  action. 

That  night,  after  Motherkin  had 
comfortably  tucked  the  twain  in  their 
little  cot,  one  with  a  flannel  dog  and 
the  other  with  a  muslin  clown,  the  plot 
was  partly  unfolded  to  the  eager  ears 
of  Toddletots. 

"Let  us  pway !"  was  the  way  the 
great  plan  began  to  unfold,  and  Tod- 
dletots opened  wide  his  big,  round 
eyes. 

Then,  both  climbed  out,  knelt  down, 
closed  their  eyes,  and  looked  very  pious. 
The  flannel  dog  and  the  muslin  clown 
were  also  enlisted  in  the  cause,  and, 
tho  they  failed  to  close  their  eyes  very 
tightly,  they  both  looked  very  devout. 

"Please,  Dod,"  began  Dollydee,  with 
hands  clasped  over  her  forehead  in 
humble  supplication,  "please  div  us  a 
bruvver  an'  sisser.     Amen  !" 

How  could  the  good  Lord  let  a 
prayer  like  that  go  unanswered? 

The  next  morning,  as  usual,  Toddle- 
tots and  Dollydee  went  out  to  feed  the 
chickens.  In  the  nest  were  two  white 
eggs,  just  the  kind  from  which  they 
had  many  times  seen  hatched  out  the 
lovliest,  fluffiest,  downiest,  little,  yellow 
chicks.  Motherkin  had  explained  the 
whole  process  to  them,  as  the  mother 
hens  clucked  proudly  over  their  broods, 
and  it  had  made  an  impression  on 
Dollydee.  This  impression  was  the 
seed  from  which  had  grown  the  great 
idea  which  had  taken  possession  of  her 
fertile  mind.  She  thought  of  their 
babyless  home.  She  reasoned  it  out 
that  it  was  a  very  simple  matter  to  get 
a  brother  and  sister.    I  f  the  hens  could 


27 


28 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


do  it,  why  should  not  she?  Any  way, 
she  and  Toddletots  would  try  it.  Here 
were  two  fine  eggs  in  the  nest.  It 
looked  so  simple.  Her  plan  was  now 
complete,  and  she  was  ready  to  lay  it 
before  her  brother  in  all  its  compli- 
cated details.  Putting  her  plump  lit- 
tle arm  around  Toddletot's  neck,  she 
gravely  unfolded  the  entire  scheme, 
and  that  young  gentleman  had  the 
astuteness  to  grasp  the  situation  at 
once. 

Having  a  distinct  idea  of  proportion, 
they  readily  realized  that  the  regular 
eggs  would  be  too  small;  but  that  dif- 
ficulty was   easily  overcome,  for,  that 


very  morning  Toddletots  had  seen 
some  huge  Easter  eggs  at  the  candy 
store,  and  both  were  agreed  that  those 
eggs  would  be  just  the  thing.  Gather- 
ing all  their  financial  assets  together, 
they  found  that  they  had  just  enough 
to  make  the  purchase,  and  after  a  con- 
ference, which  lasted  until  they  arrived 
at  the  store,  it  was  mutually  decided 
to  make  the  investment.  It  seemed 
just  a  trifle  extravagant,  but  were  not 
babies  more  precious  than  much  silver 
and  gold  ? 

The  Easter  eggs  were  so  large,  and 
so  heavy,  that  only  devotion  to  a  great 
cause  could  have  accomplished  the  feat 


EASTER  BABIES. 


29 


of  conveying  them  to  their  home.  But 
they  succeeded,  and  with  great  gasps 
and  sighs  of  relief,  they  at  last  placed 
the  eggs  side  by  side  on  their  bed. 

This  much  done,  they  ran  out  doors 
again,  this  time  on  a  more  important 
mission.  At  the  door  they  parted  com- 
pany, each  taking  a  different  course, 
and  each  determined  to  fulfill  his  or 
her  part  of  the  great  plan.  Dollydee 
stopped  at  a  little  old  cabin  just  up  the 
road,  where  she  discovered  three  brown 
babies,  the  very  ones  she  had  espied 
the  day  before.  The  brown  mother 
was  busy  hanging  up  clothes  in  the 
ya"rd  and  did  not  see  the  young  lady 
visitor.  Dollydee  was  at  first  inclined 
to  take  all  three  of  the  chubby  brown 
babies,  but  finding  that  she  could  not 
even  lift  two  of  them,  she  was  content 
with  the  third  and  smaller  one. 

"One's  nuff,"  she  murmured,  and 
finding  that  she  could  not  even  carry 
the  smaller  baby,  she  solved  the  prob- 


lem by  confiscating  a  large,  checked, 
gingham  apron;  and,  spreading  it 
upon  the  floor,  she  carefully  placed  the 
baby  upon  it  and  dragged  it  along  after 
her.  She  was  a  very  tired  young  lady 
when  she  arrived  home,  but  she 
arrived,  and  that  was  sufficient. 

Meanwhile,  Toddletots  was  having  a 
similar  experience,  and  he  met  with 
similar  success,  for  he  had  captured  the 
very  baby  that  he  had  so  much  admired 
the  day  before.  The  two  young  con- 
spirators met  at  almost  the  same  time 
on  the  front  steps  of  their  home,  and 
between  them  they  managed  to  carry 
the  two  babies  into  the  nursery.  The 
two  eggs  were  still  there,  and  after 
some  difficulty  they  managed  to  get 
them  open,  and  to  place  a  baby  in 
each  egg.  Then  they  carefully  closed 
down  the  lids,  and  proceeded  to  the 
next  step  in  the  program.  Breathless 
with  excitement  and  panting  with 
fatigue,  yet  hopeful  and  happy  in  ex- 


PREPARING  TO  HATCH  A  "BRUVVER  AN'  SISSEE.' 


30 


THE   MOTION  PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


POPPTDAD  AND  MOTHERKIN  DISCOVER  A  NEW  PATENT  IN  THE  INCUBATOR  LINE. 


pectation,  the}'  ran  out  to  the  chicken 
coop  and  carefully  lifted  two  speckled 
hens  from  their  nests.  The  poor  hens 
resented  this  interruption  of  their  ma- 
ternal duties,  not  knowing  that  they 
were  to  be  assigned  to  duties  of  a  more 
important  nature,  and  they  clucked  in 
remonstrance.  Carrying  them  to  the 
nursery,  Miss  Dollydee  and  Master 
Toddletots  carefully  placed  them  upon 
the  eggs.  The  hens  did  not  seem  to 
understand,  for  they  made  it  very  plain 
that  they  preferred  their  own  eggs,  but 
they  were  firmly  made  to  understand 
that  they  must  do  their  duty. 

Poppy  dad  and  Motherkin  were  just 
returning  from  a  walk,  and  as  they 
reached  their  front  door  they  heard 
strange  sounds  from  within.  Whether 
it  was  squaks  or  squeals,  or  both,  they 
could  not  make  out,  but  they  were 
alarmed,  and  lost  no  time  in  seeking 
the  cause.  Hurrying  to  the  nursery, 
whence   came  the  sounds,  they  saw  a 


sight  which  was  as  pathetic  as  it  was 
humorous.  Toddletots  was  quite  tired, 
but  he  still  clung  to  the  hen  with  a 
grim  determination,  and  he  seemed 
quite  to  have  persuaded  her  that  she 
was  to  become  the  mother  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  huge  egg.  Dollydee  was 
even  more  tired  than  her  brother,  but 
she,  too,  had  conquered  the  other  hen 
into  submission,  and  she  was  pressing 
her  down  upon  the  great  egg  with  pa- 
tience and  fortitude. 

"Great  Scott  !"  exclaimed  Poppydad, 
puzzled  yet  amused. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?" 
asked  Motherkin  in  amazement. 

"We's  des  hatchin',"  said  Dollydee. 

"Hatching?  hatching  what?"  ques- 
tioned Motherkin. 

"Jes  hatchin'  babies,"  answered  Tod- 
dletots. 

When  the  lids  of  the  eggs  were  raised 
by  the  curious  parents,  and  the  con- 
tents   discovered,    they   did   not   know 


EASTER  BABIES. 


31 


whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  The  babies. 
did,  however,  and  they  set  up  a  lively 
chorus,  which,  with  the  crying  of  the 
frightened  children  and  the  squaking 
of  the  hens,  quite  drowned  the  sounds 
of  knocking  at  the  front  door.  Two 
ladies  walked  right  into  the  room,  un- 
announced, and  the  white  mother  seized 
the  white  baby,  and  the  brown  mother 
seized   the    brown   baby.       They   were 


very  angry  at  first,  but  when  all  was 
explained  they  had  to  laugh,  and  Dolly- 
dee  and  Toddletots  were  forgiven.  It 
was  a  plain  case  of  kidnapping,  but 
they  were  not  to  be  prosecuted. 

For  a  long  time  after  this  our  little 
friends  were  quite  unhappy,  for,  you 
see,  they  had  lost  their  babies.  But, 
they  were  made  very  happy  when  the 
next  Easter  came  around.       It  was  a 


THE  ONLY  CORRECT  METHOD  OF  OBTAINING  A  LITTLE  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


32 


THE   MOTION  PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


cold,  stormy  day,  and  a  belated  snow- 
storm was  piling  great  banks  of  snow 
in  every  corner,  and  loading  down  the 
trees  with  beautiful  white  patches  of 
crystal.  Dolly  dee  and  Toddletots  were 
looking  out  the  window,  when  a  strange 
sight  met  their  eyes.  Who  should  come 
up  to  their  door  but  a  fine  large  stork, 


with  two  bundles,  one  on  his  back  and 
one  fastened  to  his  neck.  The  door 
was  quickly  opened,  also  the  bundles, 
and,  sure  enough,  each  bundle  con- 
tained a  baby,  and  both  were  white. 
Of  course,  everybody  was  delighted, 
and  of  course,  since  this  was  the  proper 
way  for  babies  to  arrive,  they  stayed. 


1 .11    '   \ 


ans^n^n=D 


SCENE   FROM   "THE   CODE   OF  HONOR." 


* 


TL 


Schoolma  am  of  Coyote  County 


By  Kenneth  S.  Clark 


m 


Ben 


wwQOMETHIN'     must     have     hap 
J3  pened,  boys — Lazy  Lawton's 

a  hurry !" 

At  this  exclamation  of  Big 
Hendricks,  the  little  group  of  miners 
in  front  of  the  City  Hotel  left  their 
pursuit  of  tobacco-chewing,  and 
straightened  up,  to  see  Lawton  urging 
his  pony  along  the  road  at  the  greatest 
speed  that  animal  had  ever  known. 

"What's  up,  Lazy?"  shouted  Big 
Ben,  as  the  new  arrival  almost  fell  off 
his  horse  in  his  excitement. 

"New  schoolma'am — comin'  in  the 
stage — allfired  pretty  gal!"  stacattoed 
the  breathless  Lazy. 


As  with  one  thought,  they  all  hur- 
riedly began  to  improve  their  appear- 
ance and  had  made  themselves  fairly 
presentable  by  the  time  the  stage 
driver  pulled  up  at  the  door. 

At  the  noise  of  the  clattering  hoofs, 
Sam  Wah,  the  Chinese  cook  of  the 
hotel,  rushed  out  to  meet  the  stage  in 
a  semi-official  capacity.  At  the  sight  of 
"The  Heathen,"  as  they  called  him,  in 
the  front  row  of  the  receiving  party, 
Big  Ben,  who  was  the  bully  of  the 
camp,  brushed  Sam  aside  and  stood 
ready  to  do  the  honors  himself. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  ma'am,  and  hope 
you'll   like    Coyote    County,"   was   the 


33 


34 


TEE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


way  Big  Ben  welcomed  the  fair  new- 
comer as  she  descended  from  the  stage. 
While  Ben  was  thus  gallantly  em- 
ployed, "The  Heathen"  chose  the  prac- 
tical service  of  relieving  her  of  one 
of  her  handbags. 

"The  question  is,  will  Coyote 
County  like  me?"  queried  the  school- 
ma'am,  with  a  touch  of  shyness. 

"You  bet  it  will,"  replied  Big  Ben, 
as  the  crowd  nodded  assent,  "Boys, 
let's  give  three  cheers  for  Miss " 

"Molly  Eyan,"  supplied  the  owner  of 
that  name. 

"Three  cheers  for  Miss  Molly 
Ryan,"  suggested  Big  Ben.  And  the 
cheers  were  given  with  a  punctuation 
of  pistol  shots,  until  the  fair  Easterner, 
altogether  pleased,  but  somewhat 
frightened,  at  this  Western  demonstra- 
tion, moved  towards  the  hotel. 

By  this  time  Big  Ben  had  snatched 
away  from  "The  Heathen"  the  lone 
piece  of  baggage  of  which  he  was  the 
custodian;  and,  loading  himself  down 
with  Miss  Ryan's  traps,  he  escorted  her 
into  the  hotel.  But  the  wily  Celestial 
had  picked  up  one  of  her  gloves ;  and, 
holding  it  proudly  aloft,  he  followed 
the  heavy-laden  Ben  in  the  procession. 

"Big  Ben,  him  big  pack  mule,"  mut- 
tered the  Chinaman. 

During  all  this,  Pedro  Sanchez,  the 
Mexican,  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the 
proceedings,  stood  at  one  side  of  the 
crowd  with  a  curious,  mirthless  smile 
on  his  swarthy  face. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  nine  the  next 
morning  when  Molly  Ryan,  blue-eyed 
and  buxom,  appeared  at  the  school- 
house  door  to  ring  the  bell  which  sum- 
moned her  pupils  to  the  morning  ses- 
sion. But  she  had  no  need  of  sum- 
moning, for  there  they  were,  grouped 
around  the  door,  the  most  adult  set  of 
scholars  she  had  ever  faced. 

"Good-morning,  boys,"  said  Miss 
Ryan,  "but  what  on  earth  are  you  all 
doing  here  ?" 

"Well,  you  see,  ma'am,"  stammered 
Big  Ben,  bashfully  for  him,  "the  mines 
is  shut  down,  and  we  thought  as  how 
we'd  get  a  little  book  larnin',  bein'  as 
we  ain't  got  nothin'  else  to  do." 


"All  right,  I'll  keep  you  busy;  come 
right  in,"  invited  the  teacher. 

As  they  were  scrambling  for  the 
door,  Big  Ben  saw  "The  Heathen"  try- 
ing to  edge  into  the  crowd;  and,  im- 
planting the  toe  of  his  heavy  boot 
where  it  would  do  the  most  good,  he 
kicked  the  Chinaman  out  of  the  way. 

"Beat  it !"  he  growled,  which  injunc- 
tion, accompanied  by  the  aforesaid 
pedal  accompaniment,  accomplished 
the  desired  end. 

This  earned  for  Big  Ben  a  reprimand 
from  "Teacher"  and  an  order  for  them 
to  "line  up."  And  so  the  scholars  of 
District  Number  One  marched  grandly 
into  school  in  true  military  fashion. 
After  they  had  filed  in,  "The  Heathen" 
came  cautiously  around  the  corner  and 
sneaked  inside,  unnoticed  by  all  except 
Miss  Ryan,  who  closed  the  door  after 
him,  and  at  once  began  to  be  in  earnest, 
"The  Schoolma'am  of  Coyote  County." 

As  soon  as  Miss  Ryan  had  taken  her 
place,  Big  Ben  walked  up  and  laid  on 
her  desk  an  apple.  At  this  act  of  boy- 
like chivalry,  the  miner-scholars  began 
to  laugh,  and  Miss  Ryan  had  to  rap  for 
order.  Under  cover  of  this  excitement 
"The  Heathen"  managed  to  present  to 
his  instructress  a  wild  flower,  which  he 
had  concealed  under  his  coat.  To  en- 
courage the  Mongolian  race,  Miss 
Ryan  pinned  the  flower  on  her  dress, 
while  she  relegated  Big  Ben's  apple  to 
a  remote  corner  of  the  desk.  Where- 
fore the  bully  sat  and  glared  at  Sam 
Wah,  who  returned  to  his  seat  with  a 
sly  look. 

Starting  with  spelling  and  with  fa- 
miliar concepts,  Miss  Ryan  asked  vari- 
ous boys  to  write  the  word  "dog"  on 
the  blackboard.  Lazy  Lawton,  who 
was  supposed  to  know  all  about  ani- 
mals, scrawled  off  "dorg"  as  his  con- 
tribution to  simplified  spelling  and  the 
new  dictionary.  Whereas  Hank 
Wetherbee,  the  stage  driver,  chalked  up 
"dawg"  as  his  side  of  the  controversy, 
for  which  he  was  promptly  sent  to  the 
foot  of  the  class.  This  brought  a 
laugh  from  Big  Ben,  who  was  sen- 
tenced to  stand  in  the  waste-basket  as 
a  punishment,  much  to  the  detriment 
of  that  useful  article. 


THE   SCHOOLMA'AM   OF   COYOTE   COUNTY. 


35 


THE   SCHOOLMA'AM'S   INTERESTING    CLASS. 


Despairing  of  first-day  excellence  in 
spelling,  the  teacher  led  them  on  to 
the  last  of  the  "Three  R's."  After  the 
expert  accountant,  Bud  Lake,  had  fig- 
ured out  that  4x3  equals  15,  Big  Ben 
was  released  from  his  wicker  cage  and 
told  to  find  what  5x4  equals.  When  he 
proclaimed  the  answer  to  be  24,  he  was 
crowned  with  a  dunce's  cap  and  sent 
back  to  his  corner.  At  this  point  "The 
Heathen"  began  to  count  rapidly  on 
his  fingers,  and  going  to  the  board  he 
marked  down  his  answer  to  the  prob- 
lem in  Chinese  heiroglyphics. 

"Humph/'  muttered  Big  Ben,  "looks 
like  a  laundry  ticket !" 

Heedless  of  this  comment,  "The 
Heathen"  started  explaining  his  solu- 
tion on  his  fingers  to  Miss  Ryan,  who 
finally  wrote  down  "20"  as  the  transla- 
tion of  his  Oriental  figuring,  and,  much 
to  the  chagrin  of  the  other  scholars, 
and  the  delight  of  the  "Yellow  Peril," 
marked  the  answer  "correct." 

Considering  that  they  had  had 
enough  brain  work  for  their  first  day, 
Miss  Ryan  dismissed  the  class.  By  the 
time  she  was  ready  to  go,  the  school 


room  was  deserted.  But  as  she  left 
the  door  a  smiling  face  appeared 
around  each  corner  of  the  house — Big 
Ben  and  "The  Heathen."  They 
stopped  smiling  when  they  saw  each 
other,  and  the  bully  chased  his  Con- 
fucian rival  away,  against  the  pro- 
tests of  Miss  Ryan,  who,  however,  al- 
lowed Ben  to  escort  her  home  from  her 
first  day's  work  as  their  schoolma'am. 

Bye  and  bye  work  at  the  mines 
picked  up  again,  and  Miss  Ryan  lost 
"the  boys"  as  scholars,  but  not  as 
friends. 

On  the  day  when  operations  re-com- 
menced, Henry  Allen,  the  mine  owner, 
stood  at  the  entrance  of  a  shaft-house 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  new  foreman. 
The  latter  soon  appeared,  with  a  letter 
which  introduced  him  as  Robert  Buck- 
ley. The  newcomer  was  evidently  an 
Easterner,  but  hardly  a  tenderfoot.  At 
least,  that  was  the  way  Big  Ben 
summed  him  up  in  a  hardly-tolerating 
glance,  when  he  was  delegated  to  show 
the  foreman  over  the  lay-out." 

One  afternoon,  not  long  after,  Big 
Ben  went  around  to  the  hotel  to  make 


36 


THE   MOTION   PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


AT   THE   DANCE. 


a  call  on  the  teacher.  It  was  a  some- 
what better  dressed  bully  than  usual 
that  day,  and  he  found  Miss  Eyan  on 
the  front  porch.  His  clothes  were,  in 
fact,  better  than  his  love-making;  for, 
after  a  few  ineffectual  attempts  to  es- 
tablish an  entente  cordiale,  he  was  told 
to  behave,  and  made  to  sit  politely  at 
some  distance.  At  this  strained  point, 
the  new  foreman  came  along  and  was 
greeted  heartily  by  the  black-haired 
Molly.  He  shook  hands  cordially  with 
Big  Ben,  but  the  bully  withdrew  to  his 
corner  and  indulged  in  a  school-boy 
pout.  It  was  only  now  and  then  that 
teacher  addressed  a  word  to  him,  and 
finally  he  got  up  to  leave.  "Beckon  I 
don't  cut  much  ice  around  here,"  he 
muttered. 

"Nobody  ever  said  you  did,  Ben," 
answered  the  girl  smiling.  And  Big 
Ben  departed  with  a  look  of  injured 
pride  mingled  with  angry  jealousy. 

By  this  time  the  schoolma'am  had 
become  such  a  favorite  with  "the  boys" 
that  they  decided  to  give  a  reception 
for  her — Eastern  style.  And  the  next 
evening  found  a  gala  assemblage  in  the 


dining-room  of  the  City  Hotel,  with  the 
tables  cleared  away  for  dancing.  The 
whole  population  were  there,  dressed  a 
little  better  than  they  knew  how,  with 
the  inevitable  incongruities.  Big  Ben 
outshone  them  all,  with  a  sack  coat, 
disclosing  a  dress  vest,  then  a  soft  shirt, 
and  topping  it  all,  a  once-silk  hat. 
This  Beau  Brummel  at  last  caught  the 
attention  of  Miss  Eyan  at  the  close  of 
one  of  the  dances;  and,  accompanying 
his  costume  with  what  was  his  idea  of 
a  courtly  bow,  he  asked  her,  "Ain't  yer 
goin'  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  a 
dance,  Ma'am?" 

Molly  explained  that  all  her  dances 
were  taken,  and  just  then  Buckley  ap- 
peared, in  his  ordinary  clothes,  and  led 
her  away  for  the  next  waltz.  Big  Ben 
stood  open-mouthed  and  watched  the 
foreman  whirl  with  her  among  the 
boisterous  dancers,  conspicuous  in  that 
he  wore  no  hat.  With  a  muttered, 
"Doggone  that  Easterner,"  he  made  for 
the  door,  where  he  removed  the  tall 
headgear. 

"Serves  me  right  for  buyin'  this 
derned  stovepipe,"  he  soliloquized,  and 


THE   SCHOOLMA'AM   OF   COYOTE   COUNTY. 


37 


then  he  kicked  it  far  ahead  of  him 
into  the  night. 

One  day,  Buckley  was  making  an  in- 
spection of  the  mine,  when  he  came 
upon  Pedro,  the  greaser,  loafing  at 
some  task  assigned  him,  and  using  his 
employer's  time  in  the  rolling  of  a 
cigarette.  "I've  warned  you  before 
about  this  loafing  on  duty — you're  dis- 
charged !"  said  Buckley. 

"But  the  day — it  is  too  fine  to  work," 
drawled  the  Mexican. 

"Get  off  the  place,  you  lazy  loafer," 
said  Buckley,  taking  a  step  toward  him. 

Lazy  as  he  was,  Pedro  was  quick. 
He  was  also  hot-tempered  and  vindic- 
tive. With  pantherine  quickness,  Pe- 
dro made  a  spring  at  Buckley  and  they 
clinched.  A  brief  struggle  ensued, 
but  the  Mexican  was  no  match  for  his 
adversary.  Buckley  soon  landed  a  neat 
blow  that  sent  Pedro  heavily  to  the 
ground. 

"Now  get  away  from  here  and  stay 
away,"  commanded  the  foreman. 

Just  then  Big  Ben  appeared  with  an 
inquiry  about  some  work,  and  Buckley 


turned  to  talk  to  him  just  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  Meanwhile  Pedro 
had  picked  himself  up,  together  with 
his  sombrero,  and  flicking  off  the  dust 
with  a  handkerchief,  which  he  had  also 
picked  up,  he  slouched  away,  with  an 
evil  glance  behind  him. 

The  Chinaman,  coming  along  at 
that  time  with  a  basket  of  clothes,  had 
watched  the  downfall  of  the  greaser, 
and  gurgled  tersely,  "gleaser  no  good." 

That  afternoon  Buckley  left  the 
camp  and  trudged  up  the  path  over 
the  hill.  Further  on,  a  second  pedes- 
trian was  plodding  along  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  The  second  was  the 
paymaster,  with  a  small  grip  in  his 
hand,  coming  to  pay  off  the  miners. 
Under  the  shelter  of  a  huge  tree  he 
stopped  to  catch  his  breath.  And  the 
next  thing  he  knew  he  was  prostrate  on 
the  ground,  with  a  large  cut  in  his 
head.  A  short,  thick  limb  of  a  tree  that 
lay  nearby  explained  the  method  of  the 
attack,  and  his  now  empty  grip  showed 
the  motive.  As  he  was  about  to  rise 
he    discovered    a   handkerchief.        He 


BUCKLEY   THREW   PEDRO   HEAVILY  TO   THE  GROUND. 


38 


TEE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


seized  and  examined  it.  It  bore  the 
initials  "R.  B."  Taking  this  as  a  clue, 
he  managed  to  stagger  into  camp,  and 
to  arouse  the  miners  to  find  his  as- 
sailant. 

One  look  at  the  "R.  B."  on  the  hand- 
kerchief was  sufficient.  "Robert  Buck- 
ley— that's  the  man!"  cried. Big  Ben. 
"Who  else  around  these  diggins  would 
be  carryin'  a  rag  like  that !" 

Some  of  the  men  had  seen  the  fore- 
man start  on  his  walk  up  the  hill,  and 
the   case   seemed   strong  against  him. 

Proceeding  thither  in  a  body,  they 
found  Buckley  and  the  schoolma'am 
sitting  together  on  a  fallen  tree,  so  ab- 
sorbed that  they  did  not  hear  the  ap- 
proaching party. 

"Hands  up,  Buckley !"  shouted  Big 
Ben. 

"Why,  what  does  this  mean?"  cried 
the  teacher. 

"I'm  sorry,  ma'am,"  Big  Ben  re- 
piled,  "but  the  gentleman  robbed  our 
paymaster  of  our  pay-money,  and 
pretty  nigh  killed  him  for  good 
measure." 

"Can  this  be  true  ?"  she  asked,  anx- 
iously, turning  to  the  accused  man. 

"No,  certainly  not — it's  absurd!"  he 
hotly  insisted. 

"And  I  suppose  you  never  saw  this 
handkerchief?  found  on  the  spot,"  in- 
terposed Ben,  with  irony. 

"Yes,  it's  mine,"  admitted  Buckley 
after  he  had  examined  it,  "but  I  don't 
know  how  it  got  there." 

"That's  enough,"  said  Ben,  grasping 
him  by  the  arm.  "Come  on,  we're 
going  to  show  you  some  Western  life." 
And  the  crowd  started  to  drag  him 
away. 

Molly  spied  a  coil  of  rope  in  one 
man's  hand. 

"Stop !"  she  cried.  "I  demand  a 
fair  trial !  Do  you  intend  to  disgrace 
Coyote  County  with  a  lynching?" 

After  many  protests  they  finally 
agreed  to  her  demands,  but  purely  out 
of  courtesy  to  the  schoolma'am,  and 
not  with  the  expectation  that  the  result 
would  be  any  different. 

The  session  in  school  next  day  was 
more  serious  than  usual,  in  that  the 
class  constituted  a  jury  and  the  teacher 


became  a  judge,  for  there  was  no  court 
for  miles.  Without  any  legal  formal- 
ity, they  simply  sat  down  and  talked 
over  the  case.  Big  Ben  first  told  all 
he  knew  of  the  affair.  The  paymaster, 
with  bandaged  head,  then  told  his 
story.  Another  related  how  Buckley 
had  been  seen  starting  in  the  direction 
of  the  accident,  and  brought  out  the 
fact  that  the  foreman  was  the  only  per- 
son who  knew  that  the  paymaster  was 
coming  that  day. 

Next,  Ben  cross-examined  the  pris- 
oner as  to  where  he  was  going  when  he 
set  out  on  the  hill  road. 

"I  was  heading  for  the  schoolhouse 
to  see  Miss  Ryan,"  the  foreman  testi- 
fied. 

Being  asked  if  she  had  an  engage- 
ment with  the  prisoner  at  that  time, 
she  reluctantly  replied  in  the  negative. 

"I  intended  it  as  a  surprise,"  put  in 
Buckley.  "What  reason  would  you 
give  for  a  man  in  my  position  robbing 
the  paymaster?"  he  added,  turning  to 
Big  Ben. 

"You're  kind  of  sweet  on  our  school- 
ma'am, ain't  you?"     said  Ben. 

"I  asked  her  yesterday  to  be  my 
wife,"  was  the  answer. 

"Well,  wives  is  expensive  luxuries," 
quoth  Ben  dryly. 

During  Ben's  opening  address  "The 
Heathen"  had  sneaked  in;  and,  with 
the  professional  eye  of  the  laundryman, 
had  examined  Exhibit  A — the  hand- 
kerchief. By  this  time  he  was  show- 
ing such  disapproval  of  the  bully's  rea- 
soning that  Big  Ben  performed  his 
usual  specialty  by  kicking  the  China- 
man out. 

Shaking  his  fist  at  his  perpetual 
enemy  Sam  Wah  left  the  schoolhouse 
and  plunged  into  the  woods,  intending 
to  make  a  short  cut  home.  He  had  not 
gone  far  in  the  thick  forest  when 
he  saw  a  man  ahead  of  him, 
who  turned  out  to  be  Pedro,  the 
greaser.  Sam  Wah  saw  him  examin- 
ing some  money,  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  shirt,  and  a  great  light  pene- 
trated his  Mongol  brain.  Following 
Pedro  until  the  greaser  was  hidden  be- 
hind a  rock,  counting  his  money,  the 
Chinaman  drew  a  revolver  and  ordered, 
"Brown  man,  put  up  hands !"       The 


THE   SCHOOLMA'AM   OF   COYOTE   COUNTY. 


39 


Mexican  could  do  nothing  but  obey,  and 
in  that  undignified  position  he  made 
Pedro  march  ahead  of  him  to  the 
school-house.  The  arrival  was  most  op- 
portune. Lazy  Lawton,  the  foreman  of 
the  jury,  was  handing  in  the  verdict  for 
the  schoolma'am  to  read.  Deathly 
pale  and  with  trembling  hands,  one 
would  have  thought  that  she  was  the 
accused  herself.  But  encouraged  by  a 
pressure  of  the  hand  from  Buckley,  she 
opened  the  envelope  and  read  aloud, 
"The  jury  find  the  prisoner  guilty." 

Buckley  received  the  verdict  calmly, 
but  the  young  schoolma'am  was  horri- 
fied. The  miners,  waiting  no  longer 
to  carry  out  the  sentence  on  the  pris- 
oner, started  to  rush  him  out,  but  their 
exit  was  stopped  by  the  entrance  of 
Sam  Wah  and  his  prisoner,  Pedro. 

"Him  velly  much  bad  gleaser,"  an- 
nounced the  Chinaman.  And  to  the 
amazement  of  all  he  continued,  "Pedro, 
him  fight  Buckley,  Buckley  drop  hand- 
kershiff.  Pedro  pick  it  up — me  see 
him.  Pedro  get  money,  and  him  get 
levenge  on  Buckley.  Mebbe  Heathen 
plitty  good  detectif?" 


"Search  that  man !"  commanded 
Molly,  pointing  to  the  greaser.  Big 
Ben  attended  to  this  and  at  once 
brought  forth  the  money. 

"Caught  with  the  goods !"  ex- 
claimed Lazy  Lawton,  while  Big  Ben 
showed  his  disappointment  by  saying 
nothing. 

Out  they  rushed  with  the  terrified 
Mexican,  leaving  Big  Ben  to  apologize 
to  the  injured  pair. 

"We  got  the  wrong  man,  ma'am," 
he  admitted  to  Molly,  "but  I'm  sartin 
that  you've  got  the  right  one  for 
keeps." 

The  departure  of  Big  Ben  was  the 
signal  for  Buckley  and  Molly  to  fall 
into  each  other's  arms.  And  they  were 
unaware  that  anyone  was  watching 
them  until  a  rapping  on  the  desk  made 
them  look  up  to  find  "The  Heathen" 
playing  teacher. 

"How  much  you  think,  one  plus 
one?"   quizzed  the  Celestial. 

"In  this  case  the  answer  is  one,"  re- 
plied the  schoolma'am,  smiling  at  her 
"Class-for-life." 


OXE  AXD  OXE  MAKES  ONE. 


SCENE    FROM       THO    YOUR    SINS    BE   AS    SCARLET. 


BUMPTIOUS  AS  ROMEO 


By  LaTouche  Hancock 


MR.  Barry  Bumptious,  amongst 
other  dullards,  was  of  the 
opinion  that  the  stage  was  the 
one  calling  which  affords  a  royal  road 
to  success.  He  would  argue  that,  tho 
you  have  to  read  law  for  the  Bar,  to 
receive  a  special  education  to  be  a 
painter,  to  pass  many  examinations  to 
become  a  doctor,  or  a  parson,  yet,  given 
the  temperament,  a  man  can  be  an 
actor  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  As 
Bumptious  was  convinced  he  had  the 
temperament,  he,  therefore,  determined 
to  be  an  actor.  But  not  in  a  profes- 
sional way.  Oh,  dear,  no !  that  was  a 
different  thing  entirely.  The  actors  he 
had  met  did  not  conform  to  his  ideas 
of  propriety.  He  would  start  and  re- 
main an  amateur,  for  nothing  amateur 
could  possibly  be  vulgar.  Further- 
more, argued  Bumptious — and  this  ar- 
gument was  exceedingly  forcible  at  the 
moment — theatrical  conditions  foster 
a  certain  freedom  between  the  sexes, 
and — well,  what  he  meant  to  say  was 
that  many  actors,  amateur  and  other- 
wise, regard  the  dramatic  art  less  as  an 
end  in  itself  than  a  means  to  flirta- 
tion. For,  be  it  known,  Bumptious  was 
in  love  with  a  maiden  of.  the  not  too 
euphonious  name  of  Barbara  Miffle. 

Having  once  made  up  his  mind  to 
gain  his  sweetheart  by  this  means, 
Bumptious  at  once  set  to  work  to 
achieve  his  end.  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 
appealed  to  him.  That  play  was  ab- 
solutely full  of  love.  The  balcony 
scene,  for  instance,  would  allow  him 
full  scope  for  great  animation,  and 
spirited  gestures,  so  that,  carried  away 
by  his  ardor,  he  would  almost  jump 
up  to  Juliet ;  or,  he  could  be  so  tender, 
melting    and    persuasive,    that    Juliet 


would  be   impelled  to  jump   down  to 
him.     Either  would  be  satisfactory. 

By  a  strange  coincidence  a  traveling 
company  was  "playing  the  very  tragedy 
he  had  in  mind,  so  Bumptious  proceed- 
ed to  buy  seats  for  himself  and  Miss 
Miffle.  For  one  act,  as  he  put  it  after- 
wards, did  he  endure  the  slings  and 
arrows  of  performers,  who  ought  to 
have  been  greeted  with  rotten  cabbages. 
Then,  being  in  a  highly  excited  state, 
and  forgetting  all  about  Miss  Miffle 
and  her  feelings,  he  almost  jumped 
over  the  occupants  of  the  orchestra 
seats,  and,  dragging  Miss  Miffle  after 
him,  hurried  down  the  aisle  to  the  in- 
tense amusement  of  the  audience. 
But,  while  so  doing,  his  coat  caught  an 
enormous  pin,  that  protruded  from  a 
lady's  coiffure,  and  being  stuck  in  very 
tight,  the  pin  followed  him,  attached 
to  his  coat,  and  a  souvenir  came  after 
in  the  shape  of  a  mass  of  false  hair. 
The  lady  fainted,  and  her  escort  scut- 
tled after  Bumptious,  who,  quite  un- 
conscious of  any  larceny,  was  nearly 
out  of  the  theatre.  Miss  Miffle  inter- 
vened to  stop  what  looked  likely  to  be 
an  extremely  interesting  fight;  apolo- 
gies followed,  the  hair  restored,  and 
Bumptious  was  dragged  away  by  his 
inamorata. 

"Zounds!"  he  exclaimed,  when  he 
regained  his  breath;  "and  they  call  that 
acting !  Acting,  ye  gods !"  and  Bump- 
tious became  tragic,  and  plunged  his 
right  hand  into  the  top  of  his  coat, 
striking  an  attitude.  As  he  did  so, 
he  found  himself  facing  a  billboard, 
which  announced  in  large  letters,  that 
"William  Tell"  would  be  performed 
shortly  by  the  Star  Dramatic  Company. 
This  so  incensed  him  that  he  actually 
tried    to    tear    the    poster    down,    and 


41 


42 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


"ZOUNDS  !"    EXCLAIMED  BUMrTIOUS,  "AND  THEY  CALL  THAT  ACTING  !" 


would  have  done  so,  had  not  Miss 
Miffle  soothed  his  ruffled  temper.  Sud- 
denly this  almost  human  typhoon 
calmed  down.  An  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him.  He  placed  a  finger  on  his 
forehead,  let  it  slip  down  to  his  nose, 
and  ejaculated: 

"It  shall  be  so." 

And  it  was  so  later  on,  for  the 
thought  that  Bumptious  had  in  mind 
was  to  form  a  Dramatic  Club,  of  which 
he  would  be  president.  He  would 
choose  the  plays,  he  would — well,  in 
fact,  he  would  do  everything.  Seizing 
the  opportunity,  just  as  speedily  as 
he  had  annexed  the  lady's  hair  in  the 
theatre,  Bumptious  summoned  a  select 
crowd  of  almost  equally  ambitious 
Thespians,  male  and  female,  and  forth- 
with announced  his  intention.  It  was 
welcomed  with  enthusiasm,  and  a  Club 
was  then  and  there  formed.  Bump- 
tious was  unanimously  elected  presi- 
dent, and  not  only  did 'the  "Bumptious 
Players"  come  into  existence,  but  a 
Mutual  Admiration  Society  was  formed 
on  the  spot.  Neither,  however,  lasted 
long— but  that  is  the  end  of  the  story. 

One  week  from  that  date  the  first 


meeting  of  the  Bumptious  Players  was 
held,  with  the  president  in  the  chair. 
Without  putting  it  to  the  vote,  for 
Bumptious  was  somewhat  monarchical 
in  his  methods  of  procedure,  he  an- 
nounced that  the  first  performance 
given  by  the  Club  would  take  place  in 
a  month's  time.  The  play  would  be 
Shakespeare's  "Eomeo  and  Juliet." 
The  other  members  gave  a  gasp  at  this 
pronunciamento,  but  Bumptious  pro- 
ceeded : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  can  but 
fail,  tho  such  a  word  is  not  in  my 
dictionary;  but,  if  we  do  not  succeed 
at  the  first  attempt  to  quite  realize 
all  the  charms  of  this  peerless  tragedy, 
the  sweet,  the  bitter  love,  the  hatred, 
the  festivities,  the  dark  forebodings, 
the  tender  embraces,  the  annihilations, 
nay,  even  the  sepulchers  of  this  beauti- 
ful poem,  we  will  at  least  deserve  suc- 
cess, and  leave  an  echo  behind  in  the 
minds  of  our  audience,  which  can  but 
resemble  a  single  but  endless  sigh." 

Oratory  like  this  could  not  but  move 
any  company,  so  they,  one  and  all, 
agreed  that  after  all  "Eomeo  and 
Juliet"  was  the  correct  play  on  which 


BUMPTIOUS   AS   ROMEO. 


43 


to  begin,  and  so  that  tragedy  was  chosen. 
Now  came  the  casting  of  characters. 
Being  a  self-elected  Pooh-Bah,  Bump- 
tious at  once  took  it  upon  himself  to 
assign  the  roles.     So  far,  so  good. 

"Toil,  Triptolemus  Muddlework, 
shall  be  Paris." 

Triptolemus  arose  to  object,  but  was 
cut  short  by  the  imperious  president, 
who  continued  :  "And  you,  Thomas 
Tuppleton,  shall  be  the  Capulet." 

Thomas  sniggered. 

"While  you,  Dick  Larkyn,  with  your 
jesting  spirits  will  make  an  admirable 
Mercutio/' 

Dick  guffawed,  and  muttered,  "All 
right,  sonny,  I'm  on/' 

Thru  the  entire  cast  went  Bump- 
tious, leaving  the  ladies  till  last,  some- 
what impolitely,  but  that  he  excused 
by  admitting  he  had  taken  that  course 
on  purpose  so  as  to  lend  an  emphasis. 

"The  Xurse,"  he  concluded,  "could 
not  find  a  more  fitted  exponent  than 
Miss  Sophia  Spindlewick — " 

Miss  Spindlewick  simpered. 

"While,  last  but  far  above  all  else, 
the  Juliet  shall  fall  to  the  lot  of  the 
beautiful  Miss  Barbara  Miffle." 


At  this  there  was  some  slight 
applause,  to  which  Miss  Miffle,  a 
freckle-faced,  lanky,  fuzzy-haired,  dam- 
sel, bowed  her  thanks.  A  pause  then 
ensued  till  it  suddenly  dawned  on  the 
company  that  no  one  had  been  as- 
signed to  play  the  male  title  role.  Dick 
Larkyn  was  bold  enough  to  ask  the 
question. 

"But  who,"  said  he  in  his  blandest 
manner,  with  a  sly  wink  that  took  in 
all  the  assembled  company,  "who  will 
play  Romeo?" 

Bumptious  rose,  and  posing  with  his 
hand  on  his  hip  just  as  if  he  was 
having  his  photograph  taken,  pro- 
claimed with  majestic  air : 

"Who  will  -  plav  Romeo?  Xeed  vou 
ask?  Why.  who  "but  I?"  (He  actual- 
ly said  "me").  The  company  looked 
up  in  surprise,  while  Dick  Larkyn 
crammed  his  handkerchief  down  his 
throat  to  smother  his  laughter. 

"I  will  play  Romeo,"  emphasized 
Bumptious,  looking  around  for  the 
general  appreciation  he  expected. 

An  audible  whisper  seemed  to  come 
from  Larkvn's  corner — 


"i   WILL   PLAY   ROMEO," 


EXCLAIMED   BUMPTIOUS. 


4-4 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


BUMPTIOUS  PERSONALLY  WELCOMED  EACH  BUDDING  THESPIAN  INTO  HIS  ROOM. 


"Oh,  Bumptious,  Bumptious,  where- 
fore art  thou  Eomeo  ?" 

But  the  president  was  so  taken  up 
with  admiration  of  his  attitude,  of 
which  he  caught  sight  in  a  pier  glass 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  that  the 
query  escaped  his  notice. 

"The  first  rehearsal,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, will  take  place  here  on  Thurs- 
day next  at  seven  o'clock  precisely." 

And  with  this  he  dismissed  his  myr- 
midons. 

On  the  Thursday  evening  in  ques- 
tion, Bumptious  was  all  smiles,  as  he 
personally  welcomed  each  budding 
Thespian  into  the  room,  and  soon  the 
rehearsal  began.  Dick  Larkyn  was  in 
an  especially  good  humor  that  evening, 
and  his  side  remarks  were  sometimes 
quite  audible  enough  to  create  more 
amusement  than  was  appreciated  by 
the  deadly-in-earnest  Bumptious.  Lar- 
kyn's  advice,  sotto  voce,  to  the  worthy 
president  to  keep  both  his  legs  in  one 
State  of  the  Union  was  received  with 
giggles  from  the  ladies,  whilst  his  an- 
swer to  the  world-renowned  question, 
"Eomeo,   Eomeo,   wherefore   art   thou 


Eomeo/'  which  was  whispered  into  the 
ear  of  a  young  lady  sitting  beside  him, 

"Well,  'pon  my  soul,  my  love, 

my  dear, 
I  haven't  got  the  most  remote 

idea" 

nearly  upset  the  equanimity  of  all  those 
who  heard  the  sally. 

"What's  in  a  name"  aroused  Larkyn 
to  doggerel  verse  again.  He  muttered 
under  his  breath, 

"Were  you  called  Jones,  I'd  love 

you  just  the  same, 
You'd  be  no  worse — you  couldn't 

— at  this  game!" 

In  the  fencing  scene  between  Paris 
and  Eomeo,  Bumptious  swung  his  foil 
around  so  vigorously  that  he  en- 
dangered the  electric  lights,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  lives  of  those  near  him. 
In  fact,  his  enthusiasm  carried  him 
away  so  far  that  he  very  nearly  ran 
Muddlework  thru  the  body  in  real 
earnest.  Larkyn  kept  up  a  running 
flow  of  humorous  remarks  during  the 
whole  rehearsal.  When  the  dialog 
came,     "What    shall     I    swear    by?" 


BUMPTIOUS   AS   ROMEO. 


45 


"Swear  not  at  all,"  a  distinct  swear 
word  came  from  Larkin's  vicinity,  and, 
when  Borneo's  face  became  over- 
shadowed, the  humorist  suggested  with 
all  the  politeness  in  the  world,  "Er, 
I'll  trouble  you,  sir,  to  do  that  scowl 
over  again."  This  brought  the  retort 
from  Bumptious  of  "impudent  scoun- 
drel!"  whereat  Larkyn,  being  equal  to 
any  occasion,  exclaimed,  "Say  Bump- 
tious, you  musn't  gag  so  much." 

And  so  the  rehearsal  continued, 
coming  to  an  end  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning.  As  he  was  leaving  Lar- 
kyn pressed  a  small  note  into  Muddle- 
work's  hand,  and  then  retired  without 
so  much  as  a  nod  to  the  great  presi- 
dent. Muddlework  opened  the  note, 
and  read: 

"When   Nature   was   making   an   ugly 
race, 
She   certainly   moulded   Bumptious' 

face 
As  a  sample  without  any  doubt. 
It   must   be   confessed   that   prejudice 

goes 
Very  strongly  in  favor  of  having  a  nose, 
Yet   a   nose   shouldn't   look   like    a 
snout !" 


Muddlework  gave  a  guffaw,  and  hur- 
ried from  the  room,  dropping  the  note 
in  his  haste.  Later  on  Bumptious 
picked  it  up,  and  his  indignation 
plainly  showed  what  might  have  hap- 
pened to  Larkyn,  had  not  the  latter 
made  such  a  sudden  exit. 

The  night  of  the  performance  came 
at  last,  and  the  Town  Hall  was  crowd- 
ed. The  noise  behind  the  scenes  was 
even  greater  than  the  tumult  in  the 
front  of  the  house.  Bumptious  was 
made  up  in  a  truly  fearful  fashion, 
presenting  the  aspect  of  a  man  who 
had  just  emerged  from  a  meal  sack. 
When  all  was  ready — some  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour  after  the  advertised 
time — the  curtain  rose  a  few  inches, 
and  then  stubbornly  refused  to  budge 
any  more. 

"Look!"  cried  a  youngster  at  the 
back.  "There's  legs'!  I  spy  Bump- 
tious." 

The  townsfolk  never  forgot  that 
night.  Nor  has  Bumptious.  The  per- 
formance got  so  execrably  bad  that  on 
the  rise  of  the  curtain  for  the  third 
act  nearly  everybody  had  left  the  Hall. 
By  the  time  the  tragedy  was  finished 
•the   auditorium   was   perfectly   empty, 


'ROMEO  AND  JULIET"  AS  IT  SHOULD  BE  PLAYED. 


46 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


THE  TOWNSFOLK   NEVER   FORGOT   THAT  NIGHT. 


the  spectators  being  absolutely  driven 
away  by  the  excruciating-  spectacle  of 
Bumptious  kissing  Miss  Miffle  heartily 
on  the  lips,  and  then  tumbling  head- 
long over  one  of  the  players,  who  was 
giving  vent  to  all  kinds  of  antics. 

From  this  night  Bumptious  gave  up 
all  theatrical  aspirations,  but  he  didn't 
give  up  Miss  Miffle,  and  that  lady  see- 


ing no  chance  of  getting  another  beau, 
surrendered  herself  to  the  erstwhile 
Borneo.  Dick  Larkyn  in  his  usual 
humorous  vein  pleaded  to  be  allowed 
to  be  best  man,  tho,  said  he,  "the  best 
man  should  surely  be  the  bridegroom ;" 
whereat  Miss  Miffle  tapped  him  with 
her  fan,  calling  him  a  "naught}', 
naughty  man." 


"The  first  merit  of  pictures  is  the  effect  they  produce  on  the  mind  •  and 
the  first  step  of  a  sensible  man  should  be  to  receive  involuntary  impressions 


from  them.     Pleasure  and  inspiration  first;  analysis,  afterward. 
Beecher. 


■Henry  Ward 


'Immortal  art !  the  rounded  sky 

Bends  o'er  the  cradle  where  thy  children  lie, 

Their  home  is  earth,  their  herald  every  tongue."— Holmes. 


SCENES    FROM    "HER   ADOPTED    FATHERS.' 


s    HIS    MASTER'S    SON    0 


By  Allene  Tupper  Wilkes 


""TYRUS,  Tyrus!" 

I     "Yas,  Honey,  he-ar  I  is." 

Colonel  TenBroek's  body  ser- 
vant, Cyrus,  turned  from  the  long  tan 
coat  he  had  taken  to  the  back  piazza 
to  brush,  and  grinned  down  into  his 
little  master's  upturned  face. 

"Tyrus,  muvver's  callin'  you.'7  And 
then,  as  his  little  white  hand  crept  into 
the  big  black  one,  "I  fink  she's  cryin', 
Tyrus." 

"Law,  chile,"  Cyrus  answered  re- 
assuringly. "Don't  yo'  pester  yo'  little 
heed  about  yo'  ma.  Cyrus  gwine  to 
take  keer  uv  her  an'  yo'  pa,  too." 

But  some  of  his  assurance  melted 
away,  as,  with  little  James,  he  entered 
the  long  high-ceilinged  parlor.  It  held 
now  but  the  ghost  of  its  former  splen- 
dor. Portraits  of  long  departed  Ten- 
Broeks  stood  wrapped  and  corded 
against  the  walls,  from  which  they  had 
so  lately  looked  down  with  dignity  and 
pride.  The  graceful  lines  of  the  old 
mahogany  furniture  was  hidden  under 
padding  and  crating,  and  everywhere 
there  was  an  air  of  change  in  this  room 
that  had  known  so  little  change  for 
generations. 

Col.  TenBroek  stood  by  the  window, 
his  arm  about  his  wife,  and  there,  be- 
fore him,  his  house  servants.  Many  of 
the  field  hands  had  wandered  away 
during  the  bitter  struggle  of  the  last 
few  years,  and  still  others  had  left 
when  the  war  was  over,  after  they 
found  that  they  were  legally  free  to  go. 
But  this  faithful  group  had  remained, 
unwilling  to  accept  any  freedom  save 
that  which  the  Colonel  willingly  gave 
them.  It  had  been  given,  however,  but 
almost  as  much  against  his  will  as 
against  their  wishes.  He  realized  that 
many  of  them  were  unfitted  to  go  out 


into  the  world  unprovided  for,  and,  if  it 
had  been  possible  for  him  to  do  so,  he 
would  have  kept  the  old  home  for  them. 

It  was  the  story,  and  a  sad  one,  of 
so  many  of  the  big  southern  planters  of 
the  day.  There  was  no  money  to  pay 
the  negroes,  no  money  to  enrich  the 
impoverished  land,  no  money  even  for 
seed  and  implements  with  which  to 
raise  new  crops. 

The  plantation  and  house  had  been 
sold,  and  the  Colonel,  his  wife  and  lit- 
tle son  were  to  go  to  Chicago,  where 
friends  awaited  them.  There,  far  from 
the  scenes  of  so  much  joy  and  sorrow, 
they  were  to  begin  a  new  life.  Some- 
thing of  all  of  this  Cyrus  knew,  but  the 
real  meaning  of  it  came  to  him  for  the 
first  time  now  that  he  stood  in  the 
strange  denuded  parlor  with  little 
James,  the  Colonel's  only  son,  clinging 
to  his  hand. 

"You  are  free,"  Colonel  TenBroek 
was  saying  in  a  little  speech  to  the 
servants.  "I  give  to  you  the  freedom 
that  has  been  yours  for  months,  which, 
as  you  know,  you  each  could  have 
taken,  if  you  had  wished.  I  appreciate 
the  faithfulness  that  has  made  you 
stay,  but  the  time  has  come  when  I 
can  no  longer  keep  you  with  me — Jin- 
nie,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
asked  the  Colonel,  turning  to  his  wife's 
colored  maid,  who  had  begun  swaying 
and   moaning. 

"De  Laud  hev  mercy/'  she  wailed. 
"How  Mes  Emmie  gwine  dress  hus- 
sef?  What  gwine  ter  become  uv  ma 
angel  chile?" 

"Oh,  Jinnie !"  cried  Mrs.  TenBroek, 
leaning  her  head  on  the  bosom  of  the 
black  woman,  who  had  nursed  both  her 
and  her  little  son.  "It  is  hard,  Mam- 
my Jinnie,  but  we  can't  afford  to  take 


49 


50 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY  MAGAZINE. 


BIDDING    HIS    SLAVES    GOOD-BYE. 


care  of  so  many  now;  besides  you 
must  go  with  Jake  and  your  children. 
He  can  earn  a  good  living  for  you." 

The  servants  stood  with  rolling  eyes 
and  quivering  lips,  alive  to  the  tragedy 
they  were  witnessing,  yet  eager,  now 
that  they  were  bidden,  to  begin  the  new 
life  of  freedom  before  them.  One  by 
one,  they  left  the  parlor,  each  taking 
some  little  personal  gift  from  their  mis- 
tress, and  the  small  sum  of  money  Col- 
onel TenBroek  had  been  able  to  scrape 
together  to  help  them  build  their  new 
fortunes. 

"Cyrus,"  said  Mrs.  TenBroek,  then 
her  voice  broke ;  he,  of  all  of  them,  had 
been  most  sympathetic  in  these  trying 
times. 

"Cyrus,"  Colonel  TenBroek  spoke  for 
his  wife,  "we,  most  of  all,  feel  your 
going." 

"Who  sayed  I's  goin'  ?"  asked  Cyrus. 
"Who  gwine  ter  'tend  to  dis  he-ar  mov- 
in'  ef  I  go?  I  ain't  stedyin'  'bout 
leavin'.  I's  fixin'  to  go  right  back  an' 
git  a  spot  outter  dat  yaller  coat  uv 
yo's,  Marse  John." 

"But,   Cyrus,"  interrupted  the   Col- 


onel, "I  have  no  money  to  take  you 
with  me  to  Chicago,  and  no  money  to 
pay  you  when  we  are  there." 

"I  ain't  spoke  of  no  money,  is  I, 
Marse  John?  I  reckon  I  ain't  gwine 
ter  starve,  an'  yo'  an'  me  is  'bout  the 
same  figger,  so  I  ain't  gwine  ter  lack 
fer  clothes.  Ef  I  gits  on  dat  train  uv 
kyars  an'  hides,  I  guess  I  can  git  ter 
whar  yo'  all  is  goin'  at." 

"Oh,  John,"  pleaded  Mrs.  TenBroek, 
"do  let  him  stay  until  we  go.  I  don't 
see  how  we  shall  ever  get  off  tomorrow 
if  you  don't." 

"Very  well,"  answered  the  Colonel, 
pale  and  exhausted  from  the  long 
struggle  he  had  been  thru;  "as  you 
say,  he  will  be  a  great  help.  Cyrus, 
stay  with  us  our  last  night  here,  at  any 
rate." 

"I  know'd  yo'  couldn't  git  along 
'thout  me,  Marse  John,"  answered 
the  delighted  Cyrus.  Then  to  little 
James,  "Honey,  yo'  w-nts  ter  ride  on 
de  elephant's  back  ?  Dis  is  de  way  what 
de  elephant  goes!"  And  he  trotted 
out  with  the  little  fellow  on  his  shoul- 


EIS  MASTER'S  SON. 


51 


fMES  MABEL,  SHE  MIGHTY  PRETTY,    BUT  SHE  MIGHTY  LUCKY  TER  MARRY  ER 

TENBROEK,"    SAID    CYRUS. 


der,  both  of  them  laughing  like  chil- 
dren of  one  age. 

But  all  the  laughter  in  the  house  was 
hushed  that  night;  for,  at  sundown, 
the  unconscious  form  of  the  Colonel 
was  brought  in  from  the  fields  he  loved 
and  to  which  he  had  gone  to  bid  good- 
bye. He  was  not  to  begin  the  new  life 
he  had  so  bravely  planned.  Before 
morning  the  tired  heart  was  still ;  and, 
a  few  days  later,  his  body  was  buried 
in  the  land  for  which  he  had  suffered 
and  fought. 

Cyrus  cheerfully  served  his  stricken 
mistress  and  played  with  the  little  boy, 
but  in  solitude  he  mourned  fox  his  dead 
master,  whom  he  had  loved  with  an  un- 
selfish devotion. 

Mrs.  TenBroek  was  steadfast  in  her 
determination  to  carry  out  the  plans 
her  husband  had  made  before  his  death, 
believing  that  her  boy  would  find,  in 
future  years,  a  wider  opportunity  in  the 
great  city.  When  the  day  for  their 
departure  came  Cyrus  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  leave  them,  and  since  the 
widow  had  come  to  depend  on  him  she 
took  the  faithful  servant  with  her  to 


Chicago.  There  the  three  began  life 
anew  on  the  little  fortune  that  the  sale 
of  the  plantation  had  brought  them, 
and  the  years  flew  by  rapidly. 

"Marse  James,  Marse  James !  h'its 
eight  er  clock,  Marse  James !"  Cyrus 
shifted  his  weight  to  his  other  foot,  the 
one  unafflicted  with  "de  rheumatiz," 
and  patiently  began  again,  "Marse 
James !" 

"Shut  up !  you  mean  old  black  ras- 
cal," murmured  James  TenBroek, 
sleepily. 

"H'its  pas'  eight  er  clock,  Marse 
James.'' 

"Cyrus,  if  you  inform  me  of  that 
fact  just  once  more,  I'll  throw  you  into 
the  tub  of  cold  water  you  so  carefully 
prepared  for  my  bath."  James  Ten- 
Broek sat  up  in  bed  and  eyed  the  white- 
haired  old  darkey  before  him  with 
pretended  anger.  "Unfeeling  brute,  to 
wake  me  from  the  sweetest  dream  that 
ever  came  to  a  man." 

"Law,  honey,"  chuckled  the  unawed 
Cyrus,  "yo'  sure  is  like  yo'  was  when 
yo'  ma  was  livin'  and  yo'  was  little. 


52 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


Yo'  alius  did  natcherly  'spise  ter  git 
up.  Mes  Emmie  she  used  ter  say  to 
me,  'Cyrus,  go  lif  dat  chile  outter  his 
bed/  I  wish'd  she  could  see  yo'  now/' 
"Dear  mother!"  said  James,  softly, 
for  his  voice  was  sober  now.  "I  wish 
she  could,  too,  now  particularly.  I 
never  wanted  her  so  much  before.  It 
would  make  her  so  happy/7 

"What  dat,  Marse  James,  'twould 
make  her  happy?" 

"You  sly  old  rascal,  I  believe  you 
know  already.  What's  that  you  are 
fooling  with?" 

"I's  jes  'mirin'  dis  he-ar  rose  what 
yo'  put  in  de  glass  uv  water  las'  night." 
James  laughed.  "You  have  guessed 
my  secret,  Cyrus.  Well,  isn't  it  great? 
Isn't  Miss  Ware  a  wonder  and  isn't 
your  good-for-nothing  'Marse  James'  a 
lucky  beggar  to  have  won  such  a 
prize  ?" 

"Mes  Mabel,  she  mighty  pretty  an' 
mighty  soft-spoken  an1  she  mo'  like  'ar 
folks  'dan  de  res'  uv  de  ladies  what  I 
sees  up  he-ar,  but  she  mighty  lucky  ter 
be  gwine  ter  marry  er  TenBroek." 

James  TenBroek  laughed  again. 
"Cyrus,  your  antebellum  ideas  in  these 
surroundings  are  humorous.  Why, 
Mabel  Ware,  apart  from  being  the  love- 
liest and  one  of  the  most  sought  after 
girls  in  Chicago,  is  the  daughter  of  the 
most  prominent  grain  operator  in  town. 
You  know,  Cyrus,  that  stocks  are  more 
than  coronets — ,  but  clear  out  while  I 
get  into  my  clothes !" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  old  darkey 
thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "Marse 
James,  a  pusson  says  he  wants  ter 
speak  with  yo'  on  the  telephone." 

"Take  the  message,"  answered 
James. 

"He  says,"  announced  Cyrus,  "dat 
de  margin  'bout  used  up  an  yo'  better 
kiver." 

"The  margin  about  used  up  and  I 
had  better  cover,"  -repeated  James, 
frowning.  "Say  I  will  be  down  at  the 
office  in  twenty  minutes."  "I  don't 
like  this,"  he  went  on  to  himself. 
"Things  should  have  taken  a  different 
turn  yesterday.  If  I  am  not  careful  I 
will  be  in  too  deep,  but  I  do  want  to 


make    money,    a    good   lot    of    it,    for 
Mabel's  sake." 

As  he  was  leaving  his  rooms,  old 
Cyrus  again  appeared.  "Marse  James, 
dat  Mester  Wood  come  ter  see  yer  last 
night." 

"Wood?  Did  he  leave  any  mes- 
sage ?" 

"No,  sar;  he  didn't  'zakly  leave  no 
message,  but  he  aksed  me  ef  I  know'd 
whar  yo'  was  at.  I  tolt  him  I  didn't 
know,  but  I  'specs  yo'  was  callin'  on 
Mes  Mabel.  Den  he  callt  me  a  impu- 
dent nigger,  an'  he  slammed  the  do' 
when  he  lef.  Yo'  better  watch  out  fer 
dat  onery  man,  Marse  James !" 

"Oh,  get  out,  Cyrus;  I  rather  think 
Wood  did  try  for  Mabel  himself,  but 
the  days  of  'coffee  and  pistols  for  two' 
are  over,  and  your  Marse  James  is 
quite  safe." 

Justin  Wood  indeed  tried  to  win  the 
hand  of  Mabel  Ware.  Her  lovely  per- 
son quite  satisfied  his  taste,  and  her 
position,  as  the  daughter  of  Frederick 
Ware,  satisfied  his  ambition.  He  had 
believed  that  he  would  be  successful  in 
his  suit,  until  the  handsome  young 
southerner  appeared  as  a  rival  and,  in 
a  few  months,  was  apparently  succeed- 
ing in  winning  Mabel's  love.  Smarting 
under  the  seeming  defeat,  he  began  to 
plan  the  ruin  of  his  successful  rival. 

Wood  as  a  broker  knew  of  young 
TenBroek's  heavy  speculation  in  wheat, 
and  guessed  that,  if  the  quotations  con- 
tinued to  fall,  he  would  not  have  suf- 
ficient ready  money  to  cover  his  hold- 
ings. Wood  and  a  few  of  his  friends 
had  been  trying,  in  a  small  way,  to 
manipulate  the  market,  and  to  pull 
down  prices  for  their  own  ends ;  and 
now,  with  this  additional  reason  for  a 
bear  raid,  he  gathered  his  friends  to- 
gether, determined  to  smash  the  mar- 
ket and  James  TenBroek  at  the  same 
time. 

There  followed  a  week  of  torture  for 
James.  He  had  over-reached  himself 
in  buying,  and  when  a  few  days  later 
a  margin  call  was  delivered  at  his 
house,  he  let  the  paper  fall  unheeded 
from  his  hands,  and  stared  with  miser- 
able eyes  at  a  portrait  of  Mabel.  This 
meant  ruin  for  him,  absolute  ruin,  and 


HIS  MASTER'S  SON. 


53 


probably  the  loss  of  his  sweetheart. 
With  his  good  business  prospects  and 
the  little  fortune  he  had  hoped  to  make 
in  wheat,  he  had  felt  satisfied  in  ask- 
ing her  to  marry  him.  Now,  with 
nothing  to  offer  her,  he  felt  that  he 
must  give  her  up.  The  thought  was 
intolerable;  he  flung  on  his  hat  and 
coat  and  went  out  into  the  wind-swept 
streets,  there  to  battle  with  his  misery 
and  win  from  it,  if  possible,  some  hope 
for  the  future. 

Old  Cyrus,  busily  engaged  in  fresh- 
ening up  his  master's  wardrobe,  had 
watched  the  little  scene.  Now  he 
leaned  stiffly  over  and  picked  up  the 
crushed  sheet  of  paper  which  James 
had  let  fall  to  the  floor.  It  could  tell 
him,  if  he  could  but  read,  what  lay  so 
heavily  on  his  young  master's  mind. 
But  poor  old  Cyrus,  well  versed  in 
honesty,  industry  and  faithfulness, 
lacked  "book-larnin' " ;  and,  tho  he 
turned  the  paper  from  side  to  side,  and 
looked  at  it  thru  an  ancient  pair  of 
spectacles,  it  remained  to  him  as  unin- 
telligible as  Egyptian  hieroglyphics. 
Then  a  thought  came  to  him — Miss 
Mabel,  she  could  read  the  paper;  she 


loved  his  master  and  might  help  him 
find  a  way  to  bring  back  the  joy  Marse 
James  had  lost. 

Mabel  Ware  received  the  old  darkey 
as  soon  as  he  was  announced,  guessing 
he  had  brought  some  message  to  her 
from  James.  She  greeted  him  laugh- 
ingly, but  sobered  as  she  saw  the  wor- 
ried look  on  his  face. 

"Why,  Uncle  Cyrus,  what  is  it  ?  Has 
anything  happened  to  Mr.  TenBroek  ?" 

"Yas,  Mes  Mabel,"  Cyrus  answered, 
"dey  is  somethin'  happen  ter  him,  an' 
I'se  most  pestered  ter  death  ter  fin' 
what  hit  kin  be.  He  clo'n  eat  an'  he 
do'n  sleep,  an'  dis  mornin'  when  I 
fotched  dis  he-ar  letter  ter  him,  he 
dropped  hit  on  de  no'  an'  let  out  a  groan 
fit  ter  break  yo'  heart.  Den  he  flung 
hisse'f  out  de  house  'dout  even  button- 
in'  up  he  coat.  I  kan't  'zakly  read 
what  hit  says,  Mes  Mabel,  so  I  brung 
hit  ter  yo'." 

Mabel  read  the  paper  quickly.  A 
margin  call.  James  had  been  speculat- 
ing and  had  bought  too  heavily.  The 
fall  in  wheat  had  caught  him,  and,  poor 
boy,  he  had  probably  found  it  impos- 
sible to  raise  enough  money  to  cover 


THE  TICKER   WAS  RAriDLY  TELLING  THE  RUIN  OE  ^MARSE  JAMES." 


64 


THE  MOTION  PICTURE   STORY   MAGAZINE. 


IT  WAS  A  MARGIN  CALL,  FOR  JAMES  HAD  BEEN  SPECULATING. 


his  holdings.  Brought  up  in  the  Ex- 
change atmosphere  of  Frederick  Ware's 
home,  used  to  hearing  financial  discus- 
sions from  her  early  childhood,  she  un- 
derstood at  once  the  reason  for  James' 
despair.  As  clearly  as  she  could,  she 
explained  the  situation  to  the  eager  old 
darkey. 

"Law,  honey,"  said  Cyrus,  evidently 
relieved;  "I  begun  ter  think  Marse 
James  was  in  sho'  'nough  trouble;  dat 
mebby  yo'  had  done  quarrelt,  but  'taint 
nothin  but  money  what's  de  matter !" 

"But,  Cyrus,  this  is  real  trouble. 
James  needs  money  immediately  and  I 
am  afraid  I  can't  help  him,  for  I  have 
nothing  of  my  own." 

"Go  long,  honey !"  answered  Cyrus, 
"de  gemman  in  our  f